


(You’re a) Revolution

by OTPshipper98



Series: The Fluffiest of Drarry Floofs [17]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (But It's Okay Because Draco Isn't Any Better), (Seriously...so many smiles), Bon Jovi Songs, Bryan Adams Songs, Christmas Fluff, Eventual Smut, Fluff, French Braids, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Harry Has Long Hair, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Just to Reiterate: Harry Pines and Yearns So Much It's Ridiculous, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Trauma and Recovery, New Year's Resolutions, Pining, Pining Harry Potter, Several Accidental Disney Song References, Shop Owner Harry Potter, Smiles, romantic smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21696967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OTPshipper98/pseuds/OTPshipper98
Summary: “Will I—Will I see you around?”Malfoy snorts.“Careful, Potter,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as his fingers linger on the doorknob. “One might think you actually enjoy my presence.”Eight years after the end of the war, Draco Malfoy stumbles into Harry’s shop in the middle of a storm—no wand, no backstory; no signs of having lived in the country since the Battle of Hogwarts. During their first encounter, Harry promises Malfoy—and the words sound like an old mantra—that he'll figure out Draco's secrets eventually.And then he does. He does, except…it doesn't quite feel like a victory.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: The Fluffiest of Drarry Floofs [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1291910
Comments: 122
Kudos: 638
Collections: Harry/Draco Owlpost 2019





	1. You’re a Revelation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darkravenwrote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkravenwrote/gifts).
  * Translation into Español available: [(You’re a) Revolution (Español)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22820950) by [OTPshipper98](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OTPshipper98/pseuds/OTPshipper98)



> Hiya, Darkravenwrote! I really hope you like this little story—I was hoping to write a short one-shot when I started planning it, but then I couldn't decide between having Harry have a seasonal stand with oddly specific goods on sale or a shop he's poured his heart into, so I somehow decided I could go with _both_ , and things just escalated from there XD 
> 
> I want to thank April-thelightfury115 _so much_ for alphaing, betaing, cheerleading and being my rock as I wrote this story, and also Keyflight790 and Tsauergrass for betaing and flailing along. All remaining mistakes are my own. Thank you so much too to Saphira and Cassiara for cheerleading!
> 
> Please note the only mature/smutty scene of this fic is in the epilogue, but the story can otherwise be read, up until the end of chapter 5, as a **Teen and Up** fic. Please also note there's a brief mention of a **Minor Character Death** in the fic—you can check the end notes to know who it is if you need to.
> 
> Fic and chapter titles taken from the song [Revelation](https://youtu.be/HkbdUPKD8ek), by Troye Sivan ❤

“Are you done chewing on that?”

Happily wagging her tail, Princess discards the ragged hat on the floor and turns to her water bowl.

Harry shakes his head at her and then leans back in his chair, resting a foot on the counter. He drops his head back onto the backrest, watches as the raindrops drum against the charmed ceiling. The rain is getting heavier—the day darker, the smell of a thunderstorm clinging to the air even in the warmth of the shop. Harry sighs, following the trails of the drops as they glide down the ceiling and disappear behind the edge of his charm. It’s soothing, the sound of the rainfall, the way the drops merge and push at each other on their way down. He’s missed it.

The rain picks up, thick and loud, and Harry slumps against the chair, closes his eyes for a moment—smiles.

He’s home.

And then there’s the sudden noise of the door being roughly opened and shut, a gust of wind on his face. A wet, “ _Fuck_.”

He sits up, heartbeat quickening, and then stands up altogether as the cloaked, drenched figure turns around to reveal none other than Draco Malfoy, cursing under his breath, pulling back the hood of his robes as he slumps against the door, threading his fingers through soaked strands of white-blond hair.

Their eyes meet, and Malfoy’s fingers still. His gaze flies from Harry to the shelves of the shop, to the ceiling, to Princess, who’s walking up to him to sniff his shoes and ask for pats as she does with every customer: standing on her hind legs, scratching a paw to the person’s thigh. Then it falls back on Harry, flying from his hair, messily tied into a bun, to his clothes, his face, his hand, gripping the edge of the wooden counter.

Harry’s too busy having a moment of awkward self-awareness—a moment of unexpected nervousness—to read the expressions that cross Malfoy’s face. Then Malfoy turns and, with a shake of his head, grips the handle of the door.

The shop flickers with light as a fresh bolt of lightning illuminates the sky outside, thunder roaring almost immediately after. Malfoy hesitates.

“I’d cast a sheltering charm around myself before going out there,” Harry says, heart in his throat. He’s not quite sure why he’s so breathless. So...full of _feelings._ It’s been years since he’s seen Malfoy. Years, since he’s heard from him.

It hasn’t been so long since he’s last wondered about Malfoy, though. Since he’s last daydreamed about seeing him again.

“Yes, well,” Malfoy drawls, turning around slowly, a bitter, almost pained smile taking over his sharp features. Harry’s fingertips tingle from the sound of that voice. “That’s not exactly an option, so.”

“So…”

“So, Potter, you should probably stop gaping at me and offer me a hot drink and a comfortable seat in front of your hearth so that I don’t die from hypothermia in this—this—” He gestures around. “Cacophonous assault of the senses.”

“Y-Yeah. Yeah, sure,” Harry stutters, mind staggering. “Or you could just—you know, use a basic drying—”

“Turn that thing away from me!” Malfoy stumbles back, eyes fixed on the tip of Harry’s wand. Harry raises his hands, taken aback, and then points his wand to the floor before the fireplace and conjures a cushion. He watches as Malfoy pauses, regards him carefully, and then elegantly folds his soaked figure in front of the fire, extending his robes over his legs before lifting his palms toward the flames.

The wood crackles, the rain patters against the ceiling and runs down the street, and Harry’s thoughts seem to follow the uneven rhythm of it all as he wonders what to say now, what to do. Sitting down on his chair again feels out of place, but it’s not like he can just stand there until...until what? How long is Malfoy even planning to stay? Talking seems absurd, but the silence stretching between them is making his mind reel, and soon he feels like he hasn’t felt in years. Itchy, desirous. On edge. He can feel the need to know, to find out more, crawling under his skin; the _pull_ in his chest at not knowing what’s going on in Malfoy’s mind. It’s like it’s never left him—like that unrestrained craving to decipher Draco Malfoy has simply been lying dormant all these years, merely waiting for Malfoy to show up and turn his world upside down.

He’s distracted from his thoughts when Malfoy says, “Do you have a hot drink or not?”

“A—? Oh.” Harry silently curses himself for forgetting. “Yeah. Coffee or tea?”

“Tea, please. With one and a half spoonfuls of sugar.”

As Harry boils the water on his travel kettle, waving his wand slowly to heat its bottom at the right speed, Malfoy’s head moves up almost timidly. He takes a peek at the Venetian masks stocked on one of the tallest shelves. His back is almost completely to Harry, but he must sense Harry looking at him, because he quickly shifts his gaze to the flames.

But then Princess lies down beside him, stomach up and ready to be scratched, and soon his gaze is shifting again. It’s reluctant, as if he’s too proud to admit, even to himself, that he’s curious. He first eyes her suspiciously, and then, as he brings his fingers to the fur of her chest, he rakes his gaze over the rows of doobries that fill the shop from floor to ceiling. Harry watches, amused, as Malfoy’s expression shifts when he reaches the side of the room opposite the hearth, contorting further and further the more he takes in.

When he spots the Bavarian Wolpertinger that sits near the shop entrance he seems unable to hold it in anymore.

“Potter, what—what in the world is all this?”

Harry pours the water in a mug—the blue one, Bratislava, spring of 2001—and sinks the infuser in it, leaving the herbs to slowly tint the water.

“This happens to be my life now.” He grabs a spoon and the sugar bowl from under the counter and hands them to Malfoy. “I’m not pouring you one and a _half_ spoonfuls of sugar. Do it yourself,” he says when Malfoy scowls at him. He hands Malfoy the mug, too, and then sits on the floor beside him before he can think better of it. “What about yours?”

“Hmm?”

“Your life,” Harry says. “This is what I do now: I travel, meet people, visit new places, and then I come back home in winter and I sell the things I’ve collected through the years, alongside their stories, to people I feel I can trust them with.” His eagerness is pouring out of him as plain as day and he knows it; he can't bring himself to care. “What about you? I haven’t heard from you in years.”

Malfoy side-eyes him as he brings the mug to his lips to blow at the slow tufts of steam rising from it. There’s an answer to Harry’s question, he can see it in Malfoy’s eyes, but Malfoy isn’t going to give it to him that easily.

It’s weirdly exhilarating, knowing he’ll have to earn it.

“You’ve been travelling the world for years,” Malfoy huffs, “and you still haven’t learnt how to dress properly?”

Harry laughs. It’s just a little giggle, just a silly snicker, but it awakens something inside him. A smile he can’t hold back; a warmth he can’t pinpoint.

“What’s wrong with my clothes? They’re comfortable, which is kind of crucial when you’re travelling.”

“And I guess that’s also why your hair looks so…?” Malfoy’s lips quirk, his gaze travelling to Harry’s bun. “ _Unsightly_? For travelling purposes.”

“Can’t have the ladies and gents falling for me when I know I’m going to leave, now can I?”

“Oh of course, of course. So charitable of you to spare their feeble souls from falling for your effervescent charm and blinding beauty.”

“And my vault full of Galleons,” Harry adds.

“ _And_ your vault full of Galleons.”

As Malfoy takes a tentative sip of his tea and Harry tries to make sense of the fact that he’s having an actual civil conversation with Draco sodding Malfoy, another bolt of lightning flashes into existence, the sound of thunder that follows closely not quite as loud as that of the ceaseless rain. It makes Harry feel enveloped. Makes life feel slow, small—simple, in a soothing kind of way.

Malfoy’s expression reflects quite the opposite feeling.

“I gather you’re not going to tell me why casting a protection charm around yourself so you could walk out wasn’t an option, either?” Harry waits a few seconds, but no reply comes. “I’m going to find out eventually, you know.”

“Oh, are you now?” Malfoy tries to sound offended, but Harry doesn’t miss the way his lips quirk prettily before he takes another sip. “Have much interest in my personal life, do you?”

“Always,” Harry jokes, and it’s only after a second that he considers that perhaps meeting an old enemy shouldn’t feel so much like meeting an old…friend. _Friends_ bicker, enemies fight. But hatred, pain, fear, disdain…they’re feelings he mostly reserves for what he thinks is unfair in the world now. Feelings he once sought out, but now usually avoids.

Freedom is what he seeks now. Adventures. _Life_ , and the thrill that comes with it. Stories, people, moments. Things that he can bring back with him when winter comes and he returns home. Home to the Weasleys, to his best friends. Home to his little shop, to the language, and the food, and all the things he never knew he loved about London when he was a kid—all the things he never had a chance to appreciate, to miss before.

It takes him a moment to realise that Malfoy has fallen silent. He’s looking down at his tea, side on to Harry, and the last, barely visible clouds of his tea are rising to his fair eyelashes, gliding in between his fringe, all wavy and unkempt from the rain despite his earlier efforts.

He looks cosy, Harry thinks.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Harry says, heart warming at the way Malfoy side-eyes him without lifting his head, “I don’t mind you asking me about my life if you want.”

Malfoy’s eyes crinkle at the sides when he smiles, when he huffs at Harry’s suggestion, as though it’s preposterous to think he’d care.

“I do have one question,” he admits a moment later, his eyes darting around again. “What the hell, Potter?”

“What!” Harry laughs. “It’s not so weird!”

“Your glasses are curled golden wires. Your teacups are wavy. You’re wearing a—a patchwork—purple and yellow— _poncho_.” He sounds dismayed. “When I imagined your career, I thought that you’d, I don’t know, sign up for Auror Training, give up within a year, and turn into a professional Quidditch Seeker, constant winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award. Just because you’re, well, _you_.” He says the last bit a heartbeat too late for it to be anything but an afterthought.

“So you thought about my future when we were at Hogwarts.” Princess curls up by his side, and Harry pets her. “Interesting.”

“As if you didn’t do the same!”

“I did,” Harry admits. “I thought you’d turn into an evil Ministry worker like your father.”

Malfoy grimaces.

“Yeah, that’s what he expected of me. Not that it turned out well for him.” He takes another sip of his tea. “What I wanted, though, was to play Quidditch professionally. I guess I thought being famous would bring me happiness.”

“So you wanted to play Quidditch, and you also imagined _me_ being a Quidditch player? Did you think of us as teammates, or were we the Seekers of opposing teams?”

“I didn’t think of _that_ ,” Malfoy snaps, blushing slightly.

“Wee little Draco, fantasising about competing against his nemesis for the rest of his life,” Harry teases.

“That’s it.” Malfoy puts down his empty mug. “I’m out of here.”

As if reminding him why he’s still there in the first place, thunder roars outside again, the rain crashing into the window with a gush of wind. Malfoy grimaces; his shoulders slouch, and he brings his hand to the fur of the small dog curled between them.

“I hate you, I hope you know that.”

Harry snickers. “You too, Malfoy,” he says. “You too.”

***

By the time the storm starts to fade away, he’s telling Malfoy the story of how he did, indeed, quit the Aurors— _after eight weeks, actually, not a year!—_ as he caresses Princess.

When he got her from the rescue centre, he never knew how much he’d rely on smoothing her fluffy brown coat—how much her fur, just long enough that he can run his fingers through easily, would help ground him. It’s just so soft, especially after he’s brushed it...stroking it is almost as soothing as it is to play with her perky black ears, which she loves even in her sleep.

He’s glad she’s decided to curl herself by his knee for a nap. He can feel the nervousness pooling in his chest, his fingers twitching as he speaks.

He concludes his story with a sigh and a bite to his lip as he waits for Malfoy to ask something else, to tell him something else. But then Malfoy leans forward, stretches his robes a bit. By the time he pulls himself to his feet, Harry’s standing too, palms sweaty.

“I guess it’s time for me to—” Malfoy starts at the same time as Harry says,

“There’s still a few hours until I close, if you want to—”

They both fall silent. The way they’re occupying the space feels off, feels forced, and Harry regrets ever deciding that owning a small shop would be cosy and familiar. He swallows as Malfoy busies himself with his robes, and then, when Malfoy takes a step toward the door, Harry blurts out a messy, “Will I—Will I see you around?”

Malfoy snorts.

“Careful, Potter,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as his fingers linger on the doorknob. “One might think you actually enjoy my presence.”

“I still have to find out about your life these days, remember?” Harry says with a shrug, hoping Malfoy will believe his nonchalant display.

Casting one last glance to Princess, Malfoy sighs.

“Good luck with that,” he says. His eyes find Harry’s one last time as he opens the door, and then he’s gone.


	2. Won’t You Liberate Me Now?

Just when November is dwindling into December, the days becoming ever shorter, the nights starting to shyly flicker with Christmas decorations, Malfoy visits the shop again.

Harry’s chatting with a couple that have just purchased one of the handcrafted journals he bought in Venice during the summer of 2002—they want to turn it into a scrapbook of their first year together, they said—and he feels as though the shop brightens slightly when Malfoy walks in. He sees the couple to the door, promises to bring them another journal from wherever he travels to next year, and then turns to Malfoy, who’s busying himself inspecting the shelf where Harry keeps all of the books he’s bought and loved abroad.

“You’re dry this time,” Harry says, wandering toward him.

“An astounding observation.” Malfoy doesn’t turn to look at him.

“What brings you back?”

“Certainly not your dog,” Malfoy whinges, stumbling backwards a bit when he notices Princess sniffing his shoes. “Honestly, haven’t you trained it?”

Crouching down to pet her, Harry smirks.

“That’s funny, because I seem to recall you rather enjoyed fondling her hair. You’re a good girl, aren’t you, Princess?” He rubs her ears between his hands, cooing at her. “A good girl who doesn’t need training, because she’s just so full of love and cuddles and kisses.” As if to prove his point, Princess licks his face, tail wagging excitedly.

“Potter, you _heathen_ ,” Malfoy says, horrified.

Harry laughs and picks Princess up, clucking at her, talking in a voice he knows is stupid.

“What is that? Do you want cuddles from Malfoy too? Awww, I’m sorry, baby, it’s not your fault he’s a heartless prick! You’re the most lovable girl in the world, he just can’t see it! Yes, you are!”

Princess, oblivious to the rapidly contorting expression on Malfoy’s face, just wags her tail faster, bouncing in Harry’s arms, licking his cheek as he giggles.

“Oh, for the love of—” Malfoy rubs her ears with a hesitant hand before retreating. “There. Happy now?”

“Oh, she is.” Harry sets her down, lets her curl at his feet. “I am too, but I’d be even happier if you told me why you’re blessing me with your presence again,” he says, unable to hide a smile. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

He’s always taken pride in being blunt, but he’s had to put some work on being blatant. At eighteen, tired and fresh out of a war and being constantly coddled and acclaimed by the world around him, he’d decided he was sick and tired of having to second-guess everyone’s intentions with him—of having to please everyone around him, every single stranger who burst into tears as they shook Harry’s hand in the street, every nosy reporter that wanted the best headline of the week. Wearing his heart on his sleeve, he’d learnt the hard way, was the best way to protect himself from all of that. Being eccentric, being straightforward—it was the best way to ward off the people who didn’t get him and catch the attention of those who were more likely to stick around.

Now his words, his looks, his shop...they’re misunderstood by most, and even though it’s taken some time, he’s learnt to love that about his life.

He’s aching to know if Malfoy will stay, though, or if he’ll run away.

That'll probably take a while to figure out for sure. For now, Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him, tentative smirk in place. Says, “I thought I told you to be careful, Potter.”

“And you actually believed I’d listen to you?” Harry clasps his jumper at his chest, feigning betrayal. “Ouch.”

Draco snorts. Looks around, his gaze falling onto the bookshelf.

“Well, this is a shop, isn’t it? I’m here to buy something, obviously.”

“Go for it, then.”

Twenty minutes, a few stories about Harry’s stay in Venice, and a cuppa later, Draco is putting back on the thick cloak he took off a few minutes into the conversation—reluctantly, as if he was stubborn to let Harry know he wanted to stay for a bit. Now, _Tokio Blues_ by Haruki Murakami in hand as he buttons the long, heavy garment with slow, heavy movements, Draco looks loathe to leave, even as he rambles about having other matters to attend to.

“—don’t know when I’ll have time to read it, or if I’ll read it at all. After all, one can never trust a Gryffindor to have good taste in books—or in _anything_ , really, other than in original ways of risking their lives—”

Even as he prattles, he sneaks a quick, longing glance at the hearth. Harry, half-sitting on the counter and half-heartedly trying to hide his smile behind his cuppa, nods solemnly, watching Draco disappear under his scarf and hat.

“And, of course, I’m a busy man. So don’t expect me around here anytime soon,” he rambles as he makes his way to the door.

“Mmm.”

***

Three days later, Malfoy visits again. Harry grins, and Malfoy scowls even as he takes off his cloak and drapes it over Harry’s chair behind the counter.

“Well?” Harry asks, barely resisting the urge to laugh.

“I happened to have an especially quiet week,” he says, chin raised high. The words sound practised.

“Is that so?”

“And the book was…”

“Hmm? Good?”

“It was _addictive_ ,” Draco whines even as he folds himself neatly in front of the hearth. “Addictive! I haven’t lost track of time and reality reading a book since I was—I don’t know, _twelve_.”

“Really?” Harry sets to making tea. “Not even these past few years?”

Malfoy doesn’t reply, and Harry doesn’t press it.

“So,” he says when he sits by the hearth, two mugs in hand, “what was your favourite bit?”

***

The chime of the cuckoo signalling six o’clock catches Harry off-guard. Have they really been talking for so long? He tuts, points his wand at the small square of glass on the door. The letters shift, and the word _Closed_ , reversed, shines on the glass.

“You don’t get many customers, do you?”

Malfoy’s right to point it out—he’s been there all afternoon and not a single soul has walked into the shop.

“Not really,” Harry says, relieved Malfoy hasn’t taken the interruption as his cue to leave. “But that’s the goal. It was exhausting, the first year I opened—the shop was full of reporters, fans, tourists...Luckily they think I’m off my rocker now and they mostly leave me alone, save for the few people who actually get me. And those who walk in here by accident without knowing what awaits them, of course.”

“You mean like me?” Draco’s smiling. They’ve both been smiling a lot all evening, in fact. “What do you do all day? It sounds...lonely, being here on your own for hours on end.”

“Naah. I re-read books, doodle, sing to myself, cuddle Princess…that traitor.” He glares jokingly at the dog, whose ears perk up at the sound of her name, but who otherwise doesn’t move from Draco’s lap where she’s taking a nap. “Besides, I get letters from Ron every single morning. He doesn’t believe I don’t feel lonely, either,” he chuckles.

At the pit of his stomach, a very faint sense of melancholy sprouts, and he represses a sigh. He’s not lying; he does like to have time for himself and to only have customers whose presence he enjoys as much as they do. It’s just…

It’s just, he guesses, that sometimes he wishes he could share his solitude with someone who understood him.

“What’s become of the Weasel and Granger?”

“You’re curious?” Harry teases, glad for the change in topic. “Well, Ron _did_ finish his Auror training, unlike me. He’s working on a case in Finland right now—can’t share many details. Hermione’s working in the Ministry, too. Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She’s determined to be the next Minister for Magic by 2010. Oh—I don’t know if you know, they got married last year.”

“I _knew it_! I _knew_ they’d end up together. Honestly, they were even more pathetic than you and the Weaselette!”

Harry snorts.

“Pff, _that_? That was fun while it lasted, but nothing else. She wanted to see the world from above, with a Quaffle in her hand, you see.” Harry smirks. “At least _she_ accomplished the teenage dreams you had for you and me.”

Draco grimaces, but he seems unable to resist smiling back at Harry.

“What about everyone else? Longbottom, Lovegood?”

Harry doesn’t ask why he doesn’t know already. He tells him, repeats everything Hagrid’s told him in his letters about Neville, narrates Luna’s latest adventure in her search for undiscovered magical creatures, mimicking the same broad gestures she used in her last Floo call. He tells Draco about every one of his friends he’s kept track of in the last eight years. When he mentions Pansy’s job at St Mungo’s and Draco doesn’t stop him but rather frowns down at his lap, Harry averts his gaze and talks to the embers that glow timidly in the hearth instead, giving Draco some privacy as he learns about the lives of those who were once his friends.

When Draco gets ready to go, Harry hands him another book; _1984_ , by George Orwell, which Draco recalls promising to read someday when he was younger. As Draco’s pulling the door open, letting in a gust of cold wind, Harry offers to hang out outside his shop sometime.

“We could go to the cinema,” he shrugs, “or to Hyde Park, if you prefer. I haven’t been in a while, and it’s meant to snow next week.”

He can’t see Draco’s mouth from under his giant scarf, but he can see it in his eyes that he’s smiling.

“We’ll see.”

“Okay.” Harry smiles back. “We’ll see.”

***

From November to February, Harry’s home. Home in London, home with the people he considers his family.

He doesn’t stay anywhere in particular, though. He may spend a few weeks in the Burrow, but he always ends up bunking up at Ron and Hermione’s, or at Fleur and Bill’s, or, when Teddy invites him on sleepovers, at Andromeda’s. If Ginny’s in London, he’ll spend a few days in her flat, hearing all about her latest matches, often having to endure hours of memories poured in her Pensieve because she can’t simply narrate how _epic_ a match was, how _thrilling_ a moment felt. A few times he’s sneaked into Hogwarts, winking to McGonagall when she found him walking around the Great Lake with Hagrid, sharing adventures and shenanigans.

On Sunday morning, Harry shoves his clothes haphazardly in his bag, kisses Molly on the cheek, and, stealing a ginger biscuit from the tray she’s just taken out of the oven, Disapparates to Ginny’s.

He finds her dipping a cookie into her hot chocolate, still in her pyjamas, hair messily tied in a bun. He’s about to comment on the fact they’re both sporting the same hairstyle when she sees him and sniggers.

“Okay, I want the details.”

“What?” Harry sets his bag by the table and sits in front of her. “What!” He repeats when she just laughs at him.

“You’re in love, it’s all over your face.”

“No it’s not!” he says incredulously, a chuckle merging with his words.

She arches her eyebrows, eats the cookie.

“Your eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,” she says through the mouthful, “and as telling as the scar on your face. Who are they, do I know them? Spill the beans, I wanna know _everything_. How did you meet? Have you confessed yet, or are you being dense again? Are they—”

“Woah, slow down! Sheesh. We’ve seen each other, like, three times. I couldn’t possibly be in love with him—”

“So there _is_ a him!” She points her spoon at him.

“—but I _do_ like him,” he continues. Bites his lip. “A lot.”

“Do I know him?”

“Y-Yeah. He’s a wizard, yeah.” She raises her eyebrows at him. “Was in my year at Hogwarts.” Raises them higher. Harry sighs. “He’s...he’s Draco Malfoy.”

Her mouth falls open.

“Harry James Potter!” she says slowly, lips curling into a smile even through her gape. “You’ve always lived by _go big or go home_ , but you’ve outdone yourself this time!” She takes a moment to sip at her hot chocolate, gaze unfocused. She puts the mug back down and shakes her head. “My god. Draco Malfoy! Last I heard about him...man, I don’t even know when that was. What’s there to like about him these days then?”

“Dunno, really.” It’s Harry’s turn to shake his head at himself. “He’s still an annoying prat, still full of mysteries and...you know, all those”—he gestures wildly—“pureblood mannerisms. But Princess seems to love him, and...he makes me smile.”

Admitting that out loud leaves him feeling hot all over, and the face Ginny’s regarding him with makes him grimace.

“It’s not funny!” he complains, embarrassed.

“Oh, no, no, please don’t misinterpret my facial expression. It’s only the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Before Harry can reply, she leans forward, wiggling her eyebrows, smirking in that way that makes a dimple form in her right cheek. “Sooo, how did you two reconnect?”

***

The next time Draco visits, it rains.

It’s been just over half an hour since Harry’s closed the shop, and they’re sitting close to the dying fire again, both leaning back against the closest shelf, reading the second chapter of _Robinson Crusoe_ together. It’s shocking how much Muggle literature Draco’s been missing out on. It makes Harry feel slightly better for not having had the chance to read any of the classics until he was in his early twenties; he still remembers the look Hermione regarded him with when he admitted to never having read _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_ , or _The Famous Five_ , or _The Neverending Story_.

So he doesn’t comment when Draco doesn’t even recognise some of the titles. He just sits by Draco’s side, waiting for him to flip through the pages of _Robinson Crusoe_ , and glances sideways from time to time to appreciate the mesmerising map of minute wrinkles, of minuscule movements, that is Draco’s immersed expression. He’s surprised when Robinson talks about Muggle currency and Draco doesn’t need an explanation. When the protagonist mentions Spain, he excitedly points at the page and tells Draco that’s where he spent most of this past year. He reminds himself to breathe when Draco looks up at him and the last of the fire from the hearth dances in his eyes.

And then it starts to rain.

It goes, as it often happens, from zero to ten within seconds. Harry doesn’t think much of it until he notices Draco’s expression. It’s changed, too, in merely a moment, and now he’s grimacing, leaning his head back on the shelves and glaring at Harry’s charmed ceiling—at the rain quickly sliding down its sides—as though his day has just been ruined.

Harry remembers the day Draco stumbled into his shop: how Draco didn’t leave till the rain abated, how he winced and scowled when Harry suggested he use magic to shelter himself from the storm.

“I can walk you home if you want,” he says tentatively.

“What? No.” Draco speaks too fast and then abruptly stands. Harry follows quickly, sending an apologetic look Princess’s way as her head falls from his lap.

“Come on. I know you won’t use magic on yourself or let me perform it on you, but I can cast an Umbrella Spell around the both of us—”

“Don’t be stupid.” Draco’s already pulling his coat on, shoving the book into his pocket. “A bit of rain won’t kill me.”

“Of course it won’t, but that doesn’t mean you have to get wet unnecessarily.” Harry’s putting on his coat, too, as he desperately tries to come up with the right words. “Look, I’m not going to ask you anything. I-I’m not going to judge. And...I don’t know how far away you live, but unless we have to walk all the way to Malfoy Manor it’s not an issue for me. I like hanging out with you, you know that already.” Draco’s striding to the door, not saying a word. Harry’s right behind him. “You don’t have to face things alone anymore. You know that, right?”

Draco pulls the door open with a rough gesture, then stares at the curtains of rain that are already making streams of water run down the street. Harry takes his wand out—waits.

After a long, long second, Draco turns back around and snaps a grumpy, “Fine.”

Harry envelops them in the charm and closes the front door, promising Princess he’ll be there soon to pick her up. Then Draco guides them down a deserted, shimmering Diagon Alley, and Harry follows in silence, taking in the way the blue and white Christmas lights that decorate the shop windows reflect on the raindrops as they bounce on the stone ground, the way the streetlights seem to sink into the puddles as though there’s a depth underneath their feet; as though they’re portals to a hidden underworld of light.

The rain is one of the things he misses most about England when he’s gone.

They reach the wall that separates Diagon Alley from the courtyard of the Leaky Cauldron. After a moment of hesitation, Draco rummages in his pocket and takes out a...a wand? It must be a wand, since he’s using it to open the entrance to the Leaky, but it’s definitely not _his_ wand, and it’s shorter than any other wand Harry’s ever seen. Plainer, too, with no apparent design to it but that of a polished wooden stick.

He doesn’t ask, even though he’s dying to. He gave back Draco’s wand when he heard the Death Eaters were going through trials—handed it to Kingsley, whom he remembers being incredibly understanding of the fact Harry couldn’t bear to testify. _Enough responsibilities have been placed upon you, Harry_ , he’d said, a hand on Harry’s shoulder. He remembers being unable to look the Minister in the eye. _Go home and rest. I’ll take care of this._

Either he hadn’t, or something else must have happened to Draco’s wand. Perhaps it hadn’t changed allegiances after Harry had won it. Perhaps it was still loyal to him and didn’t work for Draco. Perhaps it had broken in an accident, or got lost, or stolen.

Whatever the explanation is, Harry has a bad feeling about it. But he also feels like asking Draco will backfire, so he keeps his thoughts to himself. For now.

When he steps forward to cross the wall, Draco doesn’t follow him.

“You don’t have to walk me all the way there.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Harry repeats Draco’s earlier words, “You’re not gonna get soaked just to cross a courtyard. Come on.” And he walks Draco all the way to the door and steps into the Leaky—

“YOU!”

The shout draws everyone’s attention to the man marching towards the door and, a second later, to Harry and Draco.

“Three—minutes—late! _Three_! That’s three less minutes spent with my wife and son because you thought it was acceptable to make me w—!” The man, sweat shining across his big forehead made even bigger by his receding hairline, stops in his tracks when he catches sight of Harry. Of Harry’s _scar_ , more like. “M-Mr Potter, sir! I-It’s a pleasure to meet you!” He vehemently shakes Harry’s hand. Harry doesn’t pull away, but doesn’t reciprocate either. The way he’d shouted had reminded him impossibly of Vernon.

“Mr…”

“Byrne, Sir. Otis Byrne!”

“Cut it out, Byrne,” Draco snaps behind Harry. “You’re making a fool of yourself.” 

“I’m—!” The man’s face reddens, and he grabs Draco’s arm to pull him into the pub. “Just you wait until—!” He stops himself. Turns to Harry. “ _So_ sorry for the inconvenience, Mr Potter. Has he caused you any trouble? Because if he has…” Byrne bares his teeth and _growls_ as he side-eyes Draco.

“What?” He steps toward Draco. “No, of course not! Let go of—”

But the man’s already talking over him.

“Good, good. I’ll take it from here, Mr Potter, thank you! I hope we can meet again under different circumstances, but, as you’ll understand, I have to take care of this delinquent now. Goodnight!”

“Hey—Draco! What the—!”

But Draco doesn’t turn to look at him as Byrne drags him across the pub and up the stairs to the inn. Harry follows them, walks a few abrupt steps, and stops at the bottom of the stairs.

Tom, the same innkeeper that greeted him with tears in his eyes fifteen years ago and allowed his customers to queue to shake Harry’s hand, now snaps at the people in the pub to stop staring and mind their own business. Then he nods at Harry when their eyes meet.

Casting one last glance toward the stairs, Harry approaches the the bar and sits on one of the stools, accepting a butterbeer from the old man.

“Sorry about that,” Tom says, setting to drying a pile of glasses with a rag. “Byrne can be a little…”

Harry shakes his head.

“What just happened? What was that about Draco being three minutes late? Where did he take him?”

“You sound as though you are on friendly terms with him.”

Harry gives Tom a look that he hopes conveys he doesn’t have the energy for vague answers, and Tom huffs, giving him a broken-toothed smile.

“How much do you know?” Tom asks.

“Nothing, really,” Harry says. _Draco was quite clear on not wanting me to know_ , he thinks of adding.

Tom sighs.

“It’s been so long since the war ended that the Ministry doesn’t allow the press to talk about it anymore. They just want everyone to forget that it all ever happened. But then again, don’t we all want to forget?”

 _Moving on is one thing_ , Harry thinks. _Forgetting is another. It’s when they forget that they repeat their past mistakes._

But he doesn’t interrupt Tom. He has a feeling the man will never get to the point if the conversation drifts elsewhere.

“Mr Malfoy has been taken to one of the rooms upstairs and locked there for the night.”

“What?!”

“Dinner will be brought to him any second now, as per protocol,” Tom adds, sounding entirely too casual. Harry just stares at him in horror. “Mr Malfoy is not yet a free man, Mr Potter. He’s on probation.”

“What? For what?” Tom lifts his eyebrows. “For what he did in the _war_? It’s practically been a decade!”

“Which he’s spent confined in Malfoy Manor, I believe.”

“This is giving me a headache.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Can you please explain everything from the beginning?”

“Most of this information is not of public knowledge. Not because it’s secret, but because it’s not being covered by the media. I’m just very endowed in the art of eavesdropping.”

Harry nods impatiently. Tom sets the glass on the counter.

“In the months that followed the war, the Ministry had to deal with two very pressing problems at the same time: the capture and judgment of the Death Eaters, and the fact that Azkaban had practically collapsed after the escape of the Dementors. I don’t think I need to explain the burdens of bureaucracy to you, but what many people don’t know is that most of the Death Eaters were made to stay in their houses—were trapped there, while they awaited trial. And then, after their trials, it was decided that most of them would go to Azkaban. Except for Draco Malfoy.”

Tom serves a pint to a woman sitting a few stools away from Harry, and Harry tries not to glare at her. He doesn’t like being interrupted when he wants answers.

“Why?” he asks when Tom returns. “Why not Draco?”

“The Wizengamot considered him guilty, see. But Shacklebolt convinced them that locking him up surrounded by Death Eaters—and especially by his own parents—would only make him grow up to be just like them.”

“So what, they just locked him in his own home instead? Alone? For _eight_ _years_?” Harry’s starting to feel sick.

“Not alone. With a house elf that was allowed in and out—under strict Ministry restrictions—to keep him fed and safe.”

“Because that’s _so_ much better!”

“It is what it is, Mr Potter,” Tom says. “And now that his sentence is over, he’s going through a six-month probation where he’s meant to reintegrate into society. So he’s staying here, under the vigilance of Byrne. He’s meant to leave every morning before nine and be back every evening by seven, and he’s allowed out into Muggle London and into Diagon Alley, but nothing else. He’s meant to form social bonds with people.”

Harry shakes his head in disgust.

“What about his wand?” he asks. He has a bad feeling about that. “The one I saw him use to cross the wall isn’t his, and he hasn’t used magic outside of that moment at all.”

“He’ll get his wand back at his trial in March, as far as I’m aware. Unless he breaks the law or the conditions of his probation, that is. The wand you saw him use...that’s just a Ministry toy. It only works to open the wall between here and Diagon and to call the Aurors on him if he tries any other spell.”

Harry buries his face in his hands. Sighs.

He just wants to burst into that room and get Draco out of there.

Instead, he stands up. Leaves a few Sickles on the counter. Thanks Tom, and zips his coat before walking back out into the rain.


	3. From a Holy Bound

“You look like crap.”

“Thanks,” Harry huffs as Hermione sets a mug of coffee in front of him.

“Anytime. Bad night?”

He grumbles by way of an answer, not particularly keen on explaining how thoughts of Draco staring at the ceiling in a bed at the Leaky Cauldron, blended with thoughts of Draco in Malfoy Manor, completely alone save for a house-elf and probably a bunch of portraits, kept him awake all night. Not keen on explaining to her that he tossed and turned in bed as he wondered what Draco had done all day for all those years. Had he even been allowed out in the gardens, or had he not felt the grass under his feet for _eight years_? And what did he do now, when he wasn’t in Harry’s shop, wandering around London all day?

 _It sounds lonely, being on your own for hours on end_ , Draco had said, and at the time Harry hadn’t even stopped to consider that perhaps Draco was talking about himself, as well.

Hermione nods along to his grumble, sitting in front of him.

“Yeah...mine too.”

Harry looks up and notices the bruises under her eyes, the unkempt state of her hair.

“How come?” he asks. 

“Did Ron write to you yesterday?” Harry shakes his head. “He didn’t to me either. It’s just...I’m sure he’s okay, but I can’t help worrying. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, I’d be worried too. But you know what we say in moments like this.”

Hermione snickers. Shakes her head.

“Come on, what do we say?”

“Ron fought his inner demons at seventeen and won. Nothing can compare to _that_ ,” Hermione chants, and even though she rolls her eyes, her shoulders relax a bit. She sighs, rests her cheek on her hand. “Thanks.”

Harry’s taking a sip of his coffee and just hums in reply. And then he burns his tongue, spits into his mug. Coughs. She laughs at him and hands him a napkin, asking, “What kept you awake, then? Everything all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just…” He coughs again. Snorts. “You’re gonna kill me when I tell you, actually. You and Ron both.”

“Pfft, it can’t be worse than that time you ate half the batch of muffins Ron had baked for the Auror department.”

“I can’t stop thinking about Draco Malfoy,” he says, voice soft. A chuckle behind his words. “Again.”

Hermione blinks. Her lips thin, and from the twitch of her slowly forming frown, Harry knows she’s fighting back a smile.

“Okay,” she says after a moment, taking another sip of her coffee. “I take it back. It _is_ worse.”

***

_19/12/2006_

_My dear Roonil Wazlib:_

_DRACO MALFOY?_

_Yes, Hermione told me. No, I’m not dead. YES, it is worse than when you left half my colleagues without their chocolate muffins._

_DRACO SODDING MALFOY, MATE?_

_(I’m shaking my head at you. Please imagine me shaking your head at you.)_

_DETAILS. I demand details. I’m not gonna be able to concentrate on this mission till I know exactly how this ferret thing happened._

_— Not Roonil Wazlib_

_PS. Mission’s going well. We found a lead, that’s why I’ve been AWOL. I may not be able to write back for a few days._

He’s reading the letter a second time, smiling to himself and wondering just how the hell he’s going to tell Ron everything, when the door opens. Harry has half a mind to stop the music that he’s been listening to on the gramophone, but then he catches a glimpse of white-blond hair and—

“Wait—don’t—” He almost trips as he walks around the counter. Draco has left the book he borrowed on the shelf and is already turning to leave again. “Y-You don’t have to go.”

He grabs hold of Draco’s wrist just as Draco steps outside.

It’s finally started to snow, just like the weather forecast said it would, and although it’s unlikely it will settle yet, Harry notices a few snowflakes caught on Draco’s woollen hat when Draco turns, albeit reluctantly, to look at him.

“Potter,” Draco says. His voice sounds cold, almost hostile, but his inscrutable expression breaks into a helpless laugh a moment later. “What in the name of Merlin are you _wearing_?”

“Oh. This?” He lets go of Draco’s wrist and straightens his jumper, relieved that Draco hasn’t stormed off—that he’s smiling. Princess is poking her snout over the threshold, but he knows she won’t go out if it’s snowing. “Ron tried to knit once—emphasis on _tried_. Made matching jumpers for me and Hermione, and now we wear them every now and then to embarrass him.”

Draco’s snort dies down too soon, and he’s frowning again, turning his gaze to the street once more.

“It’s getting a bit cold out here,” Harry adds, heart in his throat, as he steps aside. “Come in, I’ll make tea. I’ll even add one and a half spoonfuls of sugar to yours.”

Draco lingers on the threshold. Then, with a sigh, he steps in and closes the door behind him. He takes his coat and hat off, but he doesn’t sit down by the fire. He crouches by Princess instead, chastising her lightly for sniffing his shoes before playing with her ears.

“Want me to turn off the music?” Harry asks, side-eyeing the pair of them. Draco doesn’t reply. Sighing, Harry flicks his wand at the gramophone. The shop falls into silence.

He does make them both tea, but he sets the mugs on the counter when he’s done. Draco is still standing, still silent. He’s examining the shelves to keep himself distracted, although Harry can see that he’s barely noticing what’s in front of him.

“What do you need me to do?” Harry asks softly. “I can...I can pretend I didn’t see anything the other day if you want me to. Or we can rant about that Byrne moron, or you can—”

Draco turns to him with a shake of his head, face scrunched.

“Why? Why are you like this?” He gestures wildly. “The Harry Potter I used to know, he wouldn’t _care_ about what I need. He’d act like a complete asshole and give me an excuse to—” He shakes his head again. “To leave already. Fuck.”

Harry huffs. _Ranting it is, then_.

“I’m sorry teenage me wasn’t exactly a role model, but people do grow and change, you know?”

“Well, I haven’t.” Draco’s expression is pained. “I _haven’t_. Or hasn’t it crossed your mind that all these years you’ve spent travelling the world, and growing, and—and being _free_ I’ve spent being _trapped_? I’ve spent being broken again, and again, and—”

His voice breaks with a sob, and he covers his mouth with a hand, turning away from Harry again.

“Draco…I don’t think that’s true. That you haven’t changed.” Draco doesn’t move. Harry steps closer—keeps talking, not knowing if he’s helping or making matters worse. “I like you now, and I didn’t like you back at Hogwarts. I didn’t _hate_ you, either—not at the very end, at least—but—”

“You pitied me,” Draco says through gritted teeth. “You still do.”

“I don’t.” Harry takes one more step. Draco’s shaking. “I—”

“I shouldn’t be here,” Draco speaks over him. “You’ve saved me one too many times already.”

“I’m not trying to _save_ you right now, Draco. I’m just—I’m trying to be there for you. As a friend.” Draco’s shoulders hunch. “Look, I’m as tired of saving people as you are of _me_ saving people. Why do you think I started travelling in the first place? To finally be able to exist around people who didn’t know about me, who didn’t have to know. And you know I hated it back when my shop was full of fans and reporters. You know this about me.”

“Let me know something else about you, then.” Draco turns around. “Why did you do it? In the Room of Requirement. You risked your life to save me. Why?”

The memory of that moment swirls through Harry’s mind. He remembers it vividly, in slow motion: the unyielding flames, the heat, the smoke. The screams. _Draco’s_ screams in his ear as he’d held on to Harry so, so tightly.

He swallows.

“You saved me too,” he says, voice weak. “In Malfoy Manor.”

“That’s different. I only had to lie. You had to fly right into the roaring fucking fire, Harry.”

Harry exhales. He’d known. He’d _known_ Draco knew it was him. Still, Draco confirming it makes his throat tighten.

“You know how I was back then,” Harry murmurs. “I thought if I didn’t step up and save everyone around me no one else would. And if I saw the chance, I just...didn’t think about it, or about myself. Or about anything, really.”

“But why _me_?” Draco insists. “You wouldn’t have minded if I’d died just a few years prior to that.”

“Draco, I could ask you the exact same thing.” He feels like they’re going round in circles. “You allied with a man that wanted to kill me. And just when you had me on a silver platter, you _lied to save me_. Why did _you_ do it, then?”

This time it’s Draco’s turn to swallow. He frowns down at the floor.

“I—I don’t know.”

Harry raises his eyebrows.

“I really don’t know, okay? I wasn’t thinking. I just—the idea of _losing_ you—” Draco sighs, pressing a palm to his face. “Why are we even talking about this?”

“You brought this up, not me,” Harry says with a huff. And then, as an afterthought, “It was bound to happen at some point, though, what with who we are and the history we have. Besides, it’s clearly bothering you—and now it’s bothering me, too, so there’s no point in not talking about it. Not if we want to be friends, that is.”

“And you want to be friends with me,” Draco says. Not a question.

“You know I do.” He’s probably standing a bit too close for comfort, he realises, and he retreats and rests his hip on the counter. When he catches Draco eyeing the door again, he blurts out, “You know, maybe we could do something fun after talking about all this. I was gonna put up a few Christmas decorations in the shop. Maybe we could do it together? Gotta have a tree if you want Santa to deliver.”

Draco gives him a _Seriously?_ look, which Harry considers a success. After a moment, Draco laughs—that low, bitter sigh that Harry’s learnt to recognise.

“Okay,” he mumbles, leaning on the column between two shelves as if needing something to help keep him upright. “Okay, but it’s true: I really don’t know why I lied to save you. And I’ve had a lot of time to think about it—I just always end up with more questions than answers.”

“Share your thoughts, then?” Harry tries. Draco arches an eyebrow, and Harry smiles. “Please? It’s what friends do.”

“Bastard.” Draco rolls his eyes. “Well, I really fucking hated you, we both know that much. I still hate you sometimes.” He says the last bit as a joke, but his expression turns pained. “Or at least I try to convince myself that I do, because it’s the only thing that feels…safe. But just like back then, it seems like I just can’t fathom the idea of a world without you.”

He pauses. Harry waits.

“I _despised_ you. I absolutely, well and truly despised you. But I hated you so much that it turned into an obsession that I could never let go of. I despised you when I envied you and everything you had that I didn’t—and I despised you even more when you started to feel like hope. _You_ shouldn’t be the one bringing me hope during the war.”

Draco doesn’t continue.

“And yet...?” Harry prompts.

“And yet the idea of the Dark Lord winning the war made me want to—” Draco shakes his head. “Made me see life ahead of me like a relentless waking nightmare.”

“So you saved me.”

“So I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want my stupid decisions to cause another death.”

Harry’s heart is in his throat. He _knows_ Draco’s thinking about Dumbledore, and for some reason, the mere thought shakes him to the core.

“He was going to die anyway,” he says, voice low. “Dumbledore. He would’ve died even if you’d done everything right. And…” He swallows. “I know you didn’t want to do it. I was there, in the tower. Under my cloak. I saw you lower your wand.”

He doesn’t know why, but he _needs_ Draco to know this.

Once again, Draco laughs like he’s trying not to cry. Like he can’t believe how miserable he feels.

“I don’t know why that surprises me,” he mumbles. “Of course you were there. You were always there. Every single mistake I made during our Hogwarts years, you witnessed. I still don’t know how you did it. And the worst part was, the more I tried to push you away, the more you sought me out. Do you have any idea how terrifying that was?” Draco asks, hand in his hair. “Trying to protect myself, to hide from everyone, and—falling face-first at your fucking feet. Over and over again.”

“But Dumbledore’s death wasn’t your mistake—”

“Everything I did that year was a fucking mistake, Harry.”

Silence. The wood cracks with the high flames of the hearth and a group of people pass by the shop, their chatter echoing in the street.

Harry wants to step closer to Draco, but he doesn’t dare.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instead. There are so many things he wants to add—that he’s sorry for what he did to Draco in the girl’s bathroom, for not offering help, for not understanding—but he doesn’t say any of it. As much as it hurts now, listening to Draco, remembering everything with him just a few steps away and barely holding himself on his feet…the truth is Harry’s learnt to forgive himself for what he did during his Hogwarts years. He was young, he was clueless to so many of the things happening around him—he was going through _trauma_.

He was a _teenager_.

But so was Draco.

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeats. “But we couldn’t have known better. At that age…with everything that was happening around us, _to_ us, with such big responsibilities placed upon us, how could we have acted any better than we did?”

Draco seems to take a moment to compose himself, to hug himself, and Harry just wants to hold him. The feeling hits him with so much force it leaves him breathless, and he holds onto the table so as not to stride forward before Draco can give him an answer.

Draco lets his head fall back. His Adam’s apple bobs and Harry bites his lip, waiting for Draco to break the silence.

“You’re making it really hard for me to move on from everything you’ve always made me feel.”

It feels so surreal Harry can barely comprehend his own thoughts.

“Maybe I don’t want you to move on.”

With an uneven exhale, Draco looks Harry in the eye.

“You don’t even know how I felt for you.”

_Oh, God._

“So tell me.”

Draco searches his face, an indecipherable _something_ in his eyes—bright like light.

“It was—the only way I have to describe it is that it was so much. Merlin, my feelings for you might not have always been positive, or healthy, but they’ve always been _so much_. You were my worst nightmare, and—and my biggest dream. And now…”

“Now?”

Draco isn’t looking at him anymore, but rather at the floor, and Harry gives in—closes the distance between them with three wide steps, brushes a strand of hair from Draco’s forehead. Breathes, “Now?”

Silver eyes meet his. Harry doesn’t move his hand away; doesn’t move his gaze while a thousand emotions cross Draco’s face.

“Now,” Draco says, and as though mesmerised with himself he reaches out and slides his fingers into Harry’s hair, pressing his palm to Harry’s nape. “I don’t…know. Everything. Everything that can be felt for a person.”

“Even the bad things?” Harry exhales, only half jokingly.

“ _Especially_ the bad things.”

Harry has never wanted to kiss a smile so badly in his entire life.

Draco must read it in his face, because his smirk fades into an expression so intense that it makes the world around Harry disappear.

It’s like those eyes can _touch_ him.

Harry palms Draco’s waist, breathing raggedly, and Draco slides his hands up, slowly tangling them in Harry’s curls, eyes locked on Harry’s. Harry leans forward, and Draco clenches his hands almost imperceptibly, pulls Harry closer.

Locks their foreheads together.

Harry tries to catch his breath, but his head is swirling, his skin tingling under Draco’s fingertips. He’s longing, _aching_ to close the distance between them and melt into Draco, to catch Draco’s lips in his, and all he can do to stop himself from caving in is stand there, his forearms pressed to the curve of Draco’s back, slowly breathing through the knowledge that they just almost kissed.

Because that’s what Draco thought would happen for a second, too, right? It _has_ to be—no one just pulls someone close like that platonically. Is Draco aching too? Is he restraining himself from kissing Harry, is he wondering what Harry wants—and if so, why are they even holding back? If they want the same thing, why not just go for it? Then again, it _might_ just all be in Harry’s mind…

As if reading Harry’s thoughts, Draco presses closer with a sigh, stroking Harry’s hair fondly.

“I’ve missed you.”

The words seem to slip from Draco’s mouth on their own accord, an unsteady breath, and Harry’s mind reels. Heart in his throat, he manages a strangled, “I’ve missed you too.” And then, feeling like it’s not enough, like those words alone can’t convey the breadth of his yearning, he exhales, “ _So much_.”

He’s known for a while now. Ever since Draco walked into his shop for the first time, he’s felt like he’s found a puzzle piece he didn’t know was missing. Now, admitting it out loud, having Draco express the same feeling…realisation suddenly hits him that he _needs_ to fit that puzzle piece into his life.

At Harry’s confession, Draco huffs. Harry tries to pull back so he can look him in the eye, but Draco holds him there as though needy—inhales shakily.

Harry catches a tear rolling down Draco’s chin.

“Hey.” Harry tries again to pull back, but Draco fists his hair, locking him in place. Harry roves his hands up Draco’s back and cups his head. “Hey, come here. Come here.”

Draco hides his face in Harry’s neck with a strangled sound. Harry holds him, plays with his hair gently, traces slow circles on his back with his palm. Swallows when he feels the urge to turn his head and kiss Draco’s hair, and holds Draco closer instead.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs when Draco’s body shakes with a sob. “I’ve got you.”

“Sh-Shut up,” Draco manages, and Harry chuckles.

“Sorry,” he whispers before resting his head on Draco’s and holding him around the waist.

Eventually, the sounds cease, and Draco sags against him. Harry waits a bit, not knowing what to do, how to proceed so that Draco doesn’t storm off in a fit of pride. When Draco pulls back to wipe his face with a hand, Harry can’t help but hesitate before letting his arms fall from around Draco’s figure. They stand there, so close they’re almost touching, until Draco’s gaze falls on the door.

Harry waits with bated breath for him to make the next move.

“How come,” Draco starts, and has to cough because his voice comes out croaky, “How come you haven’t put your Christmas decorations up yet?”

Relieved, Harry shrugs.

“My favourite part of putting them up is doing it with other people, and Ron promised he’d help this year, so I was waiting for him to come back from his mission. But it’s taking longer than expected.”

“So you’re settling for second best.”

Draco’s smirking at him from under the flush that still covers his face, clearly trying to brush off what’s just happened. Harry smiles, playing along.

“Oh, no, Hermione would be second best. You’re probably…” He pretends to consider it seriously. “Sixth, on the list? Seventh, perhaps.”

“Is that so?”

“Yup,” Harry says smugly. “After Hermione would come Teddy, and then probably Ginny, Luna would be fifth…” He counts with his fingers. “Which would make you seventh, because you can’t tell me that setting up Christmas decorations with Gilderoy Lockhart wouldn’t be an experience.”

At that, Draco snorts. “I’m _wounded_.”

“So,” Harry extends a hand, “want to be the seventh best on this mission with me?”

Draco grips his hand in a handshake.

“I’d be a fool to decline such an offer.”

***

Harry ends up having to walk Princess out to relieve herself first, since she won’t go out on her own if it’s snowing. Even though he’s freezing his arse off and _dying_ to get to work with Draco, Harry cheers the little idiot on as she sniffs the wooden corner of the shop, then a few nearby streetlights, and the foot of a tree. Thankfully, she deems the spot worthy after careful consideration, and soon enough they’re walking back toward the shop, Harry giggling to himself at the way Princess is walking on the thin layer of snow already melting on the street, as if tiptoeing.

He used to spell the street clear for her when he first brought her back home from the Canary Islands, but he’s trying to get her used to the snow now, little by little. Despite his efforts, Princess pushes the door open as soon as Harry turns the handle and sprints inside, curling herself close to the hearth.

Draco, who’s not-so-discreetly rummaging through the box of records Harry keeps by the gramophone behind the counter, doesn’t turn to look at him. Harry takes off his hat and scarf, walks up to Draco. Leans on the wall beside him.

“Find anything you like?”

“Hardly.” Draco doesn’t stop rummaging, which Harry guesses is a good sign. He wouldn’t be acting so casually if he was still upset, or so Harry hopes. “It’s all Muggle.”

“Well, yeah. I don’t think they sell Wizarding vinyl records. Not that Muggle ones are a thing anymore. I should probably buy a CD player at some point…anyway, why don’t you pick one at random? I have some Christmas ones—or…that one works too,” he says when Draco pulls out a random record and frowns at the list of songs on its back cover. _Keep the Faith_ , the front reads.

“These all sound so cheesy.”

“You can’t really expect anything else from Bon Jovi,” Harry says. “But they’re nice. Here, let’s listen to it.”

He takes the record out of the cardboard envelope and places it on the gramophone—places the needle on the outer grooves of the record.

As _I Believe_ starts playing, Harry pulls a few boxes from under a shelf and opens them. Draco shuffles closer, and at first he appears unsure of what to do with himself, but soon the floor is covered in scattered garlands, shimmering snowballs and fake pine cones that have fallen off from the giant tree Harry always sets by the door of the shop. Fake snow from the nativity scene floats in the air around them, illuminated by the light of the hearth, which is almost the only source of light in the shop, since the rays of sun barely pass through the windows and the spelled ceiling. The scent of the wood slowly crackling in the hearth mixes with the gingerbread and butterbeer candle that Harry bought when he visited Durmstrang two years ago, which he’s dug out of the bottom of a box.

When _I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead_ starts playing, Harry starts to hum, getting louder as the song goes on until he’s actually singing to himself when the chorus rolls on.

“You’re an awful singer,” Draco points out as he hangs a garland from the top of a shelf.

“ _I’m gonna live while I’m alive, I’ll sleep when I’m dead_!” is what Harry has to say to that, dancing around and smirking when Draco rolls his eyes.

Draco climbs down from Harry’s chair and wipes his robes, which have ended up full of sparkly dust. Harry saunters to where he’s standing, still dancing goofily, and sings, “ _Never gonna die, baby, come on, let me drive you crazy…_ ”

“I’m blaming you if I go deaf,” Draco deadpans, arms crossed, although his mouth is definitely quirking.

“Did you know,” Harry says, “that when someone’s singing really badly, Spaniards say the weather’s gonna get worse because of it? Well, I _really_ want the snow to settle already.”

“I’m glad to know there’s a reason for my suffering.”

“Come on, sing with me.” Harry takes Draco’s hands in his, then starts singing to the chorus again, waving Draco’s arms as he dances.

Draco looks like he’d rather eat a Crup puppy than sing along, but he eventually caves in and moves his shoulders to the rhythm of the music, gripping Harry’s hands more firmly. Harry chortles, spins them around—dances outrageously, unabashedly, cherishing Draco’s laughter.

When the song ends, Harry has to brush his hair from his face. He’s laughing breathlessly, feeling light. Feeling warm, and alive, and at home.

Draco shakes his head, but he’s grinning, his cheeks covered in a faint blush.

Their hands are still locked when the next song starts.

_You want commitment, take a look into these eyes._

_They burn with fire, yeah, until the end of time._

_And I would do anything: I’d beg, I’d steal, I’d die…_

_To have you in these arms tonight._

Harry can feel himself getting quite hot under the collar of his jumper. He lets go of Draco’s hands, embarrassed, stomach full of butterflies.

Draco turns away from him before Harry can see his face.

“Let’s get back to work,” he says, and something about his sudden change in attitude makes Harry frown.

 _So much for going back to normal_ , he thinks with a sigh.

***

A few albums, two customers looking for Christmas gifts, and a bunch of hesitant attempts at casual conversation later, Draco and Harry have managed to turn the shop around. The tree is flickering with lights of every colour, its branches enhanced with magic to look wider, brighter, the crystal balls hanging from it glistening as the snow inside them whirls. The shop is bathed in garlands, and a shelf has been emptied and turned into a nativity scene that has more of a cliche Christmas movie scene feel to it than an actual religious display, although there’s a mule grazing by a group of kids singing carols in the tiny, snowy street.

When Harry turns to look at Draco, a giggle escapes him.

“You’ve got glitter on your nose.”

Draco, of course, scrunches his nose.

“Where do I _not_ have glitter, that is the question,” he grumbles, scratching the tip of it.

“You’re making it worse!” Harry laughs. “Here, lemme just…” He takes his wand out, swishes it—

Draco slaps it out of his hand, and it clatters as it hits the floor.

“S-Sorry,” Harry stutters after a second of shock, not daring to pick up his wand, or move, or breathe. “I forgot—”

Draco shuts his eyes, his head stopping halfway through a shake.

Harry wets his lips.

“Draco,” he tries, but Draco just shakes his head again.

“Sorry.” With a sigh, Draco relaxes his face. Opens his eyes. “I didn’t...sorry.” Then, biting his lip, “I should get going.”

“Okay,” Harry murmurs. Collecting himself, he picks his wand from the floor and tucks it in his pocket. “But…what do you think?”

“Hmm?”

“Of the shop. It looks pretty, yeah?”

Draco makes the effort to look up, glancing around him.

“It looks even more cacophonous than before,” he jests, but he’s breathing raggedly, Harry can tell.

He can’t help but wonder why Draco reacts so badly to being pointed at with a wand. He can imagine it has to do with not having his own wand to defend himself with, but…he has a feeling some other previous experiences hide behind his reaction, too, and he can’t help but wonder if he’s one of them.

If he’s the worst of them.

He smiles back at Draco’s quip, but he feels the expression fading almost as soon as he manages it.

“Hey…we’re okay, right?”

By the red, blinking embers in the hearth, Princess runs in her dreams.

“We are,” Draco says, still not looking at Harry.

“And you?” Harry can’t help but ask. “Are you okay?”

Draco snorts. Without a word, he goes to grab his coat, scarf and hat.

As he waits, Harry bites his lip, thoughts of their earlier conversation spiralling in his mind. When they walk to the door, Draco hesitates and, almost as per ritual, sighs as his gaze darts to the hearth. Harry remembers that he hasn’t given Draco a new book to read.

He considers it, but just then Draco turns to open the door and Harry, unthinking, grabs hold of his sleeve before Draco can step out into the night.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs as Draco stares out, unmoving.

When Draco doesn’t reply, Harry takes a tiny, hesitant step forward. His jumper presses against the warmth of Draco’s coat.

Short of breath, he leans in and graces the corner of Draco’s mouth with his lips.

An open door.

Draco does look at him, then. His expression unreadable, his gaze intense. It lasts but a second, but it burns itself onto Harry’s memory like fire.

“Careful, Harry,” Draco breathes, an echo of words Harry’s heard before.

Bryan Adams keeps singing long after Draco disappears from sight.

_So if I love you a little more than I should, please, forgive me…_


	4. You’re a Revolution

The snow finally settles in London on the 23rd of December. It probably won’t last the day, or so Harry overhears from the Wireless program Bill listens to every morning as he groggily sips on his coffee, and he tells Draco as much in a quick letter he scribbles outside the owl post office at Diagon. _Meet you at the Leaky in 30_ , he finishes, and as soon as the tawny owl flies off, he makes his way to Gringotts to exchange some Galleons for pounds.

As expected on a Saturday morning, the building is bustling with activity. Harry’s never particularly been a fan of crowds, and he feels more relieved than he probably should when he runs into Neville, who’s also queuing to retrieve money from his vault.

“Harry!” Neville grins, giving him a strong hug which Harry gladly returns. “How’s everything? I haven’t seen you at Hogwarts in a while.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Been busy lately,” he says, momentarily distracted by the moving queue. And then, deciding there’s no point in not talking about it, “Draco’s been hanging out at the shop a lot lately.”

The way Neville’s eyebrows arch reminds Harry of Ginny.

“ _Draco_ , huh? I didn’t even know he was still in the country.”

“I know. At first it felt like he’d just popped back into existence for me too.” _God_ , it’s so hard to joke about it now that he knows… “I’m off to meet him in a bit, actually. We’re going to Muggle London.” For some reason, the word _date_ rings in his mind, and he has to shake it off before he can say it out loud.

“Huh. Have fun, I guess.”

“Oh, I will. I plan on shoving snow down his neck,” he smirks, and Neville guffaws.

“Your day looks more fun than mine then! I’m going to Muggle London, too—I need to buy my parents Christmas presents. I really shouldn’t have left it for the last possible moment, but what can I say. I have a thousand exams to grade, and the streets look so cold and unwelcoming from under my blankets…” He hesitates. Shrugs. “Besides, buying them stuff is harder than I expected without Nan by my side rambling about what they like or what they’ve been talking about lately.”

Harry doesn’t miss the way his voice trembles right at the end.

“I’m sorry, Nev.”

He feels bad for not knowing what else to say. One would think that having lost so many people would at least make him less awkward in these moments, but it seems to be one of those things he’ll never really get used to. Sort of like crowds.

“Ah, it’s okay.” Neville shrugs again. “I’m thinking of buying them one of those giant boxes of chocolates they sell in Muggle supermarkets…it’s a shit idea, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“Why don’t you try a chocolate shop instead?” Harry suggests, sensing Neville’s desperation. “There’s one in Oxford Street I really like, it’s called Artisan du Chocolat. You should try it out, they let you make your own boxes and everything.”

“That’s probably a much better idea,” Neville says, relieved. “Thanks.”

Harry gives him an encouraging smile.

“No problem. But do me a favour and try their salted caramels.”

***

Hyde Park looks beautiful in the snow.

So does Draco, even though he’s trying to hide the fact he doesn’t hate being there by huffing and rolling his eyes. With his face hidden behind a giant scarf and a thick hat, his long coat revealing nothing but a pair of dark jeans and black boots, he looks so _strange_ yet so casual that Harry just can’t stop looking. That’s how he catches the gleam in Draco’s eyes as he looks up at the white tree branches, as he watches the kids building snowmen and having snowball fights all around them.

“Remember that time in third year,” Harry says, “when you thought you’d seen my head floating in Hogsmeade?”

“Do I _remember_?” Draco snickers. “I still have nightmares about it.”

“I get you. Your face in that moment still appears in my happiest dreams sometimes.”

Draco bumps his shoulder.

“Prat,” he mumbles.

“Twit,” Harry retaliates. “Wanna go ice skating?”

“So you can fall and bring me down with you? No, thank you.”

***

It’s Draco, as it turns out, that falls and brings Harry down with him. The screams of kids and loud Christmas carols reverberate around the pavilion, and Harry laughs openly as he’s crushed a second time by Draco’s failed attempt at getting back up.

“I don’t understand why _anyone_ ,” Draco rants as Harry finally pushes him off and stands up, “would ever want to skate like this. It’s just _torture_! It’s—” He stumbles to his knees, wipes his soaked face with equally soaked gloves—“dangerous, and tedious, and unsophisticated—”

“That guy doesn’t look unsophisticated.” Harry points his chin at the man that’s been doing pirouettes on the centre of the rink since they arrived.

“He’s a wizard,” Draco groans as he begrudgingly accepts Harry’s helping hand. “He’s using spells, I know it.”

Harry shakes his head at him. He still can’t grasp the fact purebloods use Non-Bumping and Ice-Smoothing and God knows how many other charms when they skate. That just sounds boring. He points out as much, and Draco’s complaint dies when he stumbles forward and Harry has to grip his forearms so they don’t both end up on the ice again. Draco holds on tight and looks down at his feet, trying to steady himself.

 _Baby, all I want for Christmas is you_ —Mariah Carey bellows, and Harry holds Draco a little bit tighter, lost in thought for a moment.

“You can let go now, you know.”

Gaze suddenly focusing, Harry realises Draco’s looking at him, eyebrow raised. Harry lets go, smiling tentatively, and they resume their slow skating in circles around the rink.

It’s funny, he thinks, that a touch of their arms does more to him than having Draco fall on his ribs.

He can almost hear Ginny’s jokingly accusing words.

***

Later that day, as Draco guides them toward a nearby coffee shop he discovered a while ago, Harry asks him what his plans for Christmas Eve are. Draco scowls, a gesture Harry’s learnt to interpret as an indication he needs time to think through his answer.

Not wanting to pressure him, Harry rambles about how he usually spends the evening at the Burrow, but because Ginny will have a match on Boxing Day, and Ron is still on his mission, and Charlie’s latest Dragon has wreaked havoc on the reservation while half the staff is gone for the holiday season, they’ve postponed the family gathering till New Year’s Eve.

“It’s all good, though,” he says. “Andromeda Floo called me like a minute after Molly to invite me over. Said Teddy wants to go on a mission with me to catch Santa in the act, bless him.”

Draco breathes in as if to answer, but holds it in for a moment—his frown deepening, his shoulders sagging.

“How—how old is Teddy now?”

Noticing Draco’s tone when he says his cousin’s name, Harry turns to look at him.

“Eight,” he says, and pain crosses Draco’s expression. Subtle, but not enough for Harry not to notice.

So he takes Draco’s gloved hand in his. He lets go after a moment, as they’re in the middle of the street, but not without running his thumb over the back of Draco’s hand—not before he feels Draco’s fingers squeezing his.

The bright lights and lively chatter and the loud music from the shops suddenly seem out of place as the thought dawns on Harry that Draco is alone. That he no longer knows any of the people in his life. Any of his Hogwarts friends, anyone from his family.

Somehow, Draco mumbling a moment later that his Christmas plans consist of spending the night alone at the Manor and visiting his parents in Azkaban does nothing to soothe Harry’s heavy heart.

“They’re letting you spend the night outside?” he asks, trying to steer the conversation back to safety.

“Yes.” Draco doesn’t sound happy about it. “Both Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve.”

A million thoughts cross Harry’s mind. _He could spend the night at Andy’s. He could come to the Burrow on the 31st. He doesn’t have to be alone. He doesn’t have to go back to that place._

“Will your house elf still be at the Manor?”

_I can’t just invite him to his own family’s house._

_If I try to save him, I’ll lose him. I’ll lose myself down that rabbit hole again._

“No,” Draco says. “And she’s not mine, she was only assigned to work at the Manor during my imprisonment. She’s probably back in Azkaban now, shoving soggy rice down some other wretch’s throat.”

“Oh. Well…maybe there’s still a chance you can see her when you visit.”

Draco laughs that laugh that makes Harry’s heart ache.

“She’d throw a curse at my face before I could open my mouth.”

“You didn’t get on well?”

“We had our moments,” Draco mumbles. “But she was trapped there, too, even if she had permission to go out. And she was young and convinced her life was going to waste, and she barely tolerated me at most times,” he mutters in a practiced nonchalant tone, then scowls defensively. “But yes, I was hurting and mostly treated her like shit, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I’m not. I’m not trying to judge you. I just…I want to know about you.”

Draco’s expression morphs into a sardonic laugh.

“I thought we’d established I wasn’t going to answer your questions?”

“Pfft,” Harry gestures, encouraged to see Draco’s eyebrow quirking towards his hairline—his expression dying down into a smile. “That was a long time ago, when you were new and mysterious. Now we’re friends, remember?”

“Certainly one of the most ill-advised decisions of my life,” Draco says dryly, and Harry cracks up at his tone.

“Tell that to your eleven-year-old self, see what the idiot thinks about it.”

At that, Draco belly laughs too, his face crinkling in a way that makes Harry’s heart go soft. The world deserves that smile, he thinks. Deserves the freedom in it, the carefree beauty of it.

“Merlin, eleven-year-old me really was an idiot,” Draco beams. “You and him would’ve been a great match.”

“Well I’ve got good news for you,” Harry says, and he’s smiling, too—so much so that he has to bite his lip, because if he doesn’t, he’ll kiss Draco right there and then.

Draco points an accusing finger at him.

“Are you saying I’m still an idiot?”

Harry just giggles. He giggles at the look on Draco’s face, half-hidden by his gigantic scarf. At the red tip of his nose, at the happiness pouring from his own chest.

“Maybe,” he teases, “or…maybe I’m saying we’re still a great match. Whichever you prefer.”

They’ve stopped walking again, which is why Harry notices—worry crawling through his skin—the exact moment Draco’s expression shifts into something new.

Something bad.

He can feel Draco’s tone before he hears it.

“Harry…”

He barely breathes as he waits for Draco to finish his sentence, for Draco to look at him. But neither happens. Instead, pain returns to Draco’s face.

“Hey,” Harry says. Then, brushing a wavy strand of white-blond hair under Draco’s hat, “Hey. Whatever it is…just tell me. Please.”

Draco turns his face away from Harry’s hand. The loss is almost unbearable.

“You don’t need me to tell you. You’ve told me yourself a thousand times.”

“Told you what?”

An exasperated kind of hurt paints Draco’s expression.

“That you’re leaving, Harry. I don’t know when, or where to, but you’re—you’re going to _leave_. And you already know I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. So please, just...you said you wanted to be friends.” A sigh. “Friendship I can do.”

Harry wants to laugh. He wants to sob, and to hold Draco in place to make sure he won’t disappear at the first turn of his head.

“You don’t know that I’m going to leave,” he says instead, the words coming from somewhere unknown—a thought that has existed in the back of his mind for a while, but has never before been formulated. “You don’t know that I’m going to leave because _I_ don’t know that I’m going to leave.”

Draco searches his face. Desperation mixes with hope, and hope with relief, and God, what right do Draco’s eyes have to be so fucking beautiful? What right does he have to make Harry’s legs go weak when he wets his lips, at a search for words?

“You said you leave every year.” Even Draco’s frown is beautiful, Harry thinks stupidly—his eyebrows, too, thick and just slightly bushy. His high cheekbones, the pink tip of his sharp nose. His eyelashes...God, Harry would never tire of kissing those eyelashes, of tracing his thumbs over the softness of those cheeks.

“I didn’t say I always will,” Harry exhales, and he knows, in the back of his mind, that there are people walking past them—that his feelings are all over his face, screaming through his body language. He takes a few steps back, and Draco follows, leaning a shoulder on the edge of the telephone box. Harry does the same.

“If I asked you right now,” Harry continues, tucking his hands in his pockets so as not to reach out to brush his fingers against Draco’s, “what you want your life to be like when you’re free…as in, what do you _want_ from life. What would you say?”

“I’d probably say I’d punch Byrne on the face,” is what Draco replies. What crosses his expression, however, tells Harry that’s not everything that’s crossed his mind. Joking is probably the only safe thing to do.

“Well I’d say that I honestly have no fucking clue,” Harry says. “And I mean...I have no idea. At all. And I know what you’re thinking,” he adds when Draco’s eyebrows shoot up. “That I obviously have things figured out. I have a job, I have like five different houses between friends and family. I even have a dog! I follow a script. But that doesn’t mean…how do I explain this?” Harry pulls at a messy strand of his hair. “I want to do things because I choose to. That’s why I’ve been travelling—because I chose to, and then kept choosing to. But I could always choose a different path instead.” He looks Draco in the eye. “I could always choose to stay. If…I had a reason to.”

Draco shakes his head.

“I’m not asking you to choose me.”

“And I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying…life decisions don’t always have to be big, or permanent.” He shrugs. “Ron always tells me that I can’t have everything: that everyone needs to sacrifice things sometimes in favour of what they want—a door closes and another one opens, and all that—and…I know he’s right. And I do want things to be permanent eventually.” God, is he making any sense? “What he doesn’t get is that I never had this as a kid. I could barely leave the house to go to school—could hardly be a carefree teen. I couldn’t decide not to be the saviour of the world. He could have gone home at any point and I still would have saved the world, but I was the only one who could…yeah.” He gives up and just gestures. “What can I tell you.”

He expects Draco to reply. Instead, Draco looks down at Harry’s coat. After a moment, he lifts his hand—hooks a finger inside Harry’s sleeve where it’s peeking from his pocket and pulls it out.

Takes Harry’s hand in his.

Firmly so.

Harry looks back up at him. Smiles, tightening his hand around Draco’s.

“I just want to figure out who I am,” he murmurs after a moment, leaning his back against the telephone box. “I want to follow my heart.”

“Merlin,” Draco chuckles. “I’d forgotten how much of a Gryffindor you were.”

Harry rolls his eyes, biting down on a smile, but the playfulness leaves Draco’s expression as their eyes meet.

“Just so we’re clear,” Draco says, voice low, “what you’re saying is…you’re not sure what your heart wants right now.”

“I’m—” _Fuck_. “I guess I’m saying that right now, if you asked me to stay, I…would.”

Draco holds his breath.

“A-And if you wanted to come with me,” Harry adds, holding on to Draco’s hand like a lifeline, “if you wanted me to stick around till you’re free just so we can—board a plane and sleep at a crappy motel and try not to screw up too much while ordering dinner in a burger booth in the Czech Republic, and maybe even cross the Charles Bridge together, I—”

Draco covers Harry’s mouth with the hand that was holding his.

“Don’t—fuck. Okay.” Draco chuckles, though it sounds more like a desperate gasp. “Shut up.”

“Mkay,” Harry mumbles against the wool.

“Okay,” Draco repeats, the word barely an exhale, and then he drops his hand.

“Draco—”

“I was going to show you the coffee shop.”

He says it almost to himself, and for a moment Harry wants to shake Draco for changing topics.

Instead, he nods. Says, “Let’s go, then.”


	5. I Will Liberate You Now

_25/12/2006_

_My beloved Henry Pawter,_

_Merry Christmas, mate! I wish I could be there with all of you, but hey, guess it’s a good thing I’m not, since we found and dismantled the gang’s headquarters last night! There’s a shit-ton of paperwork ahead of us, but still. I’ll tell you all about the mission in person veeery soon. (That is a promise and also a threat)._

_How was Christmas Eve? Did Teddy manage to kidnap Santa? Did Hermione and Andy bicker? (‘Mione won’t spill a word, so I’m guessing they did). And most importantly—how are things with the ferret? Am I a brother-in-law yet, or what? You didn’t mention him in the last letter, and that has to be either really good or really bad news._

_Tell Mum I love her if you’re at the Burrow. If not…say it to yourself, I guess? No judgment if you do—today a Finnish police officer told me I needed to love myself more and it stuck with me, so I’m going to do it too._

_See you soon!_

_—Weasel King_

_26/12/2006_

_My cherished Won-Won,_

_Do you even have to ask? Of course they bickered—it’s their love language. And nah, I distracted Teddy with a game of Uno while Andy took care of the gifts. He’s mad at me now, but I can take it if it means there’s a chance he’ll still believe in Santa by next Christmas._

_You probably won’t believe me without proof, but I had to teach Draco how to fall gracefully on his arse the other day. Turns out he can’t ice skate without safety charms. How stupid is that? Not that I complained, of course—he looked rather cute sprawled on top of me._

_I also… (I can feel you murdering me as I write this) confessed my feelings to him? Kind of? I don’t know if you could call it that. I also have no idea what reaction I was expecting, but whatever it was, it was definitely more than a change in topic. He just pretended the conversation hadn’t happened for the rest of the day. Which I guess I understand, but still._

_I haven’t seen him since then—Christmas Day was hectic, and Andy had me cleaning up with her all day today. I’m going back to the shop tomorrow, though, so maybe I’ll see him then. Maybe not._

_I’m only just realising this as I write, but I think I’m scared. I’m scared I pushed him away, or that I said the wrong thing. That’s why I’m trying to tell myself that he only needs time to mull my words over._

_Can’t wait to see you again! It’s weird not having you around. Teddy says he misses you too, and that he hasn’t forgotten about the three sickles you owe him from that game of Chess._

_Yours,_

_—Crackpot_

_PS. Please tell me the Finnish police officer story was a joke. That’s BRILLIANT._

_27/12/2006_

_My one and only Potty,_

_I wish it was a joke, but nope. The guy had this GIANT moustache and the strongest accent I’ve heard in my life, and I plan to tell my grandchildren that he was a superhero someday._

_Trouble in ferret paradise, I see. I’m sorry I have to be the one to break it up to you (okay, I’m not), but you two are so in love it’s ridiculous. I haven’t even seen you together and yet your letter was enough to make me grimace. What do you mean, ‘confessed—kind of’? I bet you practically asked him to move in with you. Next I know we’ll be looking at wedding catalogues and picking out flower patterns._

_Jokes aside, you two are bloody disasters and I think we all knew this was gonna happen ever since you started talking about him again. And of course you’re scared, mate—he’s always meant so much to you, even when he was a prick, it’s no wonder you want to keep him forever now that he’s not. I doubt he’s any better, either—as you said, he probably just needs time to figure out what he needs. I remember how lost we were right after the war—can’t imagine it’ll be too different for him right now._

_I hope you know I’m happy for you. I always am, whatever you do, but I’m especially happy that you’ve found someone. I know, don’t look at me like that—you don’t mind being alone. But you know I worry about you._

_Hoping to be home soon. Don’t do anything stupid like go and tell him you weren’t being serious, you hear me?_

_Affectionately,_

_—Rupert Weasley_

_27/12/2006_

_Hey,_

_He didn’t come by today. It may be because Princess is spending the day with Teddy, but I’m not feeling great right now. Will you be back tomorrow or so?_

_—Harry_

_27/12/2006_

_Sorry, not till the 30th. I’ll see you at Mum’s on New Year’s Eve, yeah? We’re having a Christmas meal AND buffet food later in the evening, I’ve heard!_

_Hang in there. Things will get better._

_—Ronald Wheezy_

_30/12/2006_

_Just got home! Hermione fell asleep on the sofa waiting for me and she looks SO BEAUTIFUL my chest feels a bit too full right now. Excuse the blotches of ink—I’m writing this with the lights off so I don’t wake her up just yet._

_Hope everything’s OK. See you tomorrow!_

_—Ron_

***

Putting on the jumper Ron made for him isn’t quite as fun as it usually is. It reminds him of Draco’s smile this time—of Draco dancing with him to Bon Jovi, of Christmas decorations and silly nativity scenes, and of confessions, and yearning, and hope.

He misses Draco so much. So much so that, stupid idiot that he is, he hasn’t tried to contact him since they last saw each other. He’s been trying to convince himself that he’s following Ron’s advice and not doing anything stupid, but…

But the truth is, he just doesn’t want to not get an answer.

Shaking off the thoughts, Harry kneels down to ruffle Princess’s ears and remind her he’ll be back soon. That he loves her.

“Bye!” he bellows over the sound of the telly, adjusting his scarf around his neck. When Teddy and Victoire reply from the living room, and Andromeda from upstairs, he heads out the door and into the freezing street.

Then he Disapparates.

***

With its roofs and windows covered in snow, the trees that surround it shining with colourful charms, the Burrow looks like a Christmas postcard.

Okay, Harry may be a little bit biased because he knows it’ll smell of turkey and gingerbread when he walks in—knows the air will be warm, the kitchen messy, the living room full of people, and the music lively—knows that everyone in there will be wearing a Weasley jumper of one sort or another. But just standing out there, on the edge of the forest, and looking at the house, makes him so inexplicably happy that he doesn’t want to move till he’s captured the perfect picture. Till he’s somehow immortalised what the landscape makes him feel so that he can share it with the world.

Out of all the feelings he’s chased over the years, that of returning home is probably his favourite.

He pushes himself off the tree and walks to the house, smiling to himself when he approaches the front door and hears Molly chastising someone for leaving the carrot sticks out of the fridge. He takes out his hat, readjusts the bandana on his head, and pushes the door open, loving the way his senses are immediately engulfed by sound, and scents, and warmth—

And the sight of Draco Malfoy in light jeans and a baby blue Weasley jumper, hip propped against the counter as he chats with Ginny.

“Draco!” he says, and Draco turns to look at him just as strong arms pick Harry up from the floor and envelop him in a giant hug. “Hey—Ron!”

Ron squishes him harder until Harry laughs, pushing back, wiggling his legs powerlessly.

“I’d almost forgotten how tiny you were,” Ron coos, shaking Harry in his arms before reluctantly putting him back down.

“I hadn’t forgotten about the fact you’re a bloody tower,” Harry grumbles. “Um, why is—”

“Ah, yes!” Ron steps to the side, pointing a hand Draco’s way as if to introduce him. “I didn’t have time to get you a proper Christmas present, so I brought you a ferret. What do you think?”

“What do I—” Harry shakes his head. Walks up to Draco, who’s looking at him sheepishly.

Harry’s mind still hasn’t wrapped around the fact Draco’s wearing a _Weasley jumper_.

“Hey,” Draco says.

“H...Hey.”

“Oi, Ginny!” Ron bellows, already walking to the living room.

“I knoooow.” She jumps off the counter—gives Harry a kiss on the cheek. “See you around, you two.”

With that, she walks away.

“Well that was awkward,” Draco says.

“You…you’re here. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Yes, well,” Draco shrugs a shoulder. “Ron lured me with all his talk about Mrs Weasley’s food. I wouldn’t have caved so easily if I’d known about the jumper, though.” He grimaces.

Harry, confused and happy and worried as he’s feeling, can’t help but chuckle at that. Can’t help but murmur, “You look warm.” And then, when Draco raises an eyebrow at him, “Warm and cuddly. God, Draco, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

“It’s been eight days since we saw each other, you nitwit,” Draco mumbles, even as a shy smile pulls at his lips. “And you look even stupider than I do, which doesn’t surprise me. What’s that you’re wearing on your head? A handkerchief?”

“It’s a _bandana_ ,” Harry laughs. Turning around, he pushes his hair back with both hands for Draco to see, saying, “I like the way it makes all my hair fall down my back in one direction. It looks like a waterfall. Or a big blob of amorphous waves, or what have you. I just like it.”

When he turns back around, Draco’s laughing softly at him, shaking his head.

He looks so, so warm.

“You’re so adorable,” Draco says after a moment. Harry’s about to point out the same about him, chest warm and fuzzy, when Charlie bursts into the house and a wave of Weasleys floods the room to greet him, dragging Draco and Harry along with them.

That’s pretty much the only moment they get alone the whole day. Dinner’s ready soon after, and when they finally get to leave the table everyone gathers in the living room to play family games. Draco tries to escape, of course, but Harry intercepts him, just a tad too eager to see him make a fool out of himself in front of everyone. Sure enough, just a few minutes later, Harry’s laughing his arse off as Draco squats on the rug, batting his arms in a desperate attempt to get them to guess whatever he’s mimicking.

“A duck!” Ginny yells.

“An airplane! A chicken! A baby that thinks it has wings!” Ron shouts.

“Oh, oh—a ‘ippogriff giving birth!” bellows Fleur, making everyone laugh.

“ _No_!” Draco groans. “Ugh—” he puts his hands around his mouth and breathes out noisily then bats his arms again.

“A DRAGON!” Charlie bursts.

“ _Yes_! _Thank_ you!”

Harry’s laughing so much he’s crying.

There is, as Ron promised, a buffet in the kitchen later in the evening—the table and the counter filled with dishes upon dishes of sandwiches, quiche, cheese and onion rolls, carrot sticks, and salt and vinegar chipsticks that vanish almost as soon as they’re placed there. Molly, quickly filling more dishes to replace the empty ones, looks proud of herself, as she often does when her meals are appreciated.

“Do you need help?” Harry asks her as she sends another tray of Swiss rolls flying to the table.

“Oh, no, darling, don’t you worry about that,” she says, shooing him away—batting at him gently with the tablecloth when he tries to insist.

As he walks away, Harry gets pulled into a conversation about Ginny’s latest match, then into a game of jenga. Fleur crowns herself the new queen of dominoes, Bill gives a drunk Percy a piggy-back, someone spills cider all over the carpet, Ron slaughters a Christmas carol, and by eleven thirty most of the family has gathered close to the hearth in the living room, save for George and Ginny, who are nowhere to be seen. Slightly tipsy, Hermione throws out the general question of, “So! What are everyone’s New Year’s Resolutions?” and a thousand conversations sprout, each louder than the last.

Draco and Harry exchange a glance.

“Shall we go somewhere quieter?” Harry murmurs.

Draco nods, and they sneak out of the room and up the stairs.

“Where are we going?” Draco asks when they reach the first floor and Harry keeps going.

“Up,” he says simply.

***

The air is freezing when he steps out onto the balcony. He gestures at Draco to wait inside, then leans out from the wooden handrail and _Accio_ ’s their coats, scarves and hats, which fly out the front door and up into his arms.

Draco quirks an eyebrow at him when Harry hands him his things, but covers himself without complaint before walking out into the cold with Harry.

For a moment they both lean on the handrail, staring out into the night in silence. It’s snowing lightly, and the air is calm. The only light comes from inside the house, the forest barely an outline of darkness, and the voices from the living room sound like a distant echo of a faraway scene.

When Draco tucks his scarf under his chin and cups his hands around his mouth to warm his fingers with his breath, Harry turns to look at him, resting his elbow on the railing so he can lean his head on his hand.

“You look like a burrito when you’re all layered up like that,” Harry says, and his voice sounds gentler than he’d intended. Like he can’t help but be soft around Draco. _To_ Draco.

“That’s funny,” Draco murmurs, looking back at him. His smile is so tender Harry aches to trace it with a fingertip. “I was just thinking that you look like a mini-version of Hagrid, what with the hair and the coat. All you’d need is the beard…”

Harry can feel his smile widen as he rolls his eyes at Draco. It dies as soon as it came, though, when the memory of the past eight days comes back to his mind.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says. It’s so easy, letting his feelings for Draco flow out of him like waves. “Are you going to tell me how Ron really convinced you to come?”

“Oh, he had a great advantage.” Draco looks back out. Reaches out to catch a snowflake in his hand. “I wanted to see you.” He examines his palm—watches as the snowflake slowly melts, saying, in a low voice, “So really, he only had to promise that his family would behave around me, prattle a bit about how miserable you were without me…and I was won over.”

“Prick,” Harry quips, knowing Ron would never say that about him. Then, “I wanted to see you, too. I was kinda scared I’d mucked things up between us.”

“Seriously?” Draco laughs incredulously. “And here I was, thinking _I’d_ ruined everything with my stupid words.”

“What? No way.”

“And then you didn’t write to me or come stalk me like you usually would…what was I supposed to think?”

“You were supposed to be taking your time to think about what I’d said to you!” Harry shakes his head. “Jesus, no wonder Ron said we were ridiculous.”

“I did think about it, if it’s any consolation. I had quite a lot of time in my hands, plus a bunch of other things I wasn’t particularly keen on thinking about.”

“Yeah?” Harry’s heart jumps. “What...What do you think, then?”

Draco sighs, releasing a dragon’s breath that quickly melts into the night air.

“It’s complicated.”

“We’ve got plenty of time.”

“You’re painfully difficult, you know that, right?” Draco says. “Well. On one hand, what you said, that thing about not every decision having to be big, and permanent, and wanting to try things out...I think it struck a chord in me. It hasn’t been easy, stepping back out into the real world. Seeing that everyone around me has a place and I don’t. Knowing I’ll eventually be thrown out there and expected to have my life in order when I don’t always feel like I’m entirely alive. I hadn’t considered that I could just…try things out first.”

“That was how I felt, too,” Harry murmurs. “After the war.”

Draco nods, lips pursed in a fine line.

“On the other hand, I’m scared.” Another sigh. If only Harry could kiss his frown away—could caress his worries away…

“Of what?” he breathes when Draco doesn’t continue.

In the living room, the Weasleys roar with laughter.

“I’m scared that if you choose me now,” Draco murmurs, and his eyelids fall closed as if he can’t bear the load of his own thoughts, “I'll have to watch you choose a different path in the future.”

God. Just how can Draco shake Harry’s world so much with barely a few words?

“You’re right,” he says after a moment, one too many thoughts swirling through his mind, making it hard to think straight. “That’s a possibility.”

Draco looks so vulnerable when he looks into Harry’s eyes that Harry…if things don’t end well, Harry doesn’t know how he’ll cope with not being able to reach out—to touch Draco’s hands, Draco’s face; Draco’s waist, warm under his hands as he brings Draco closer. Draco’s lips, an exhale against his fingertips.

If things end badly, he doesn’t know how he’ll keep all this love contained.

“It’s not the only possibility, though,” Harry adds, breath caught in his throat. Draco’s gaze piercing right into his soul. “I could also choose you over and over again.”

For a moment, Draco holds his breath. Then he exhales—a breathless little sound that almost sounds like a laugh.

“Yeah,” Harry says, a little incredulous laugh escaping him too. “I know.”

Draco looks out again, and Harry tears his eyes away from him and does the same, needing a moment to compose himself. The vastness of the night is soothing: a vacuum in which all his feelings can float, can expand without meeting a body on which to reverberate to crash against him.

When it’s clear Draco isn’t going to break the silence, Harry says, “So…about the things you want to try. Got any New Year’s Resolutions?”

“I want to light a bonfire on the beach during sunset,” Draco replies simply, as though he’s had all the time in the world to decide it. He probably has, Harry thinks. “Then, when it’s dark, I want to run barefoot on the sand. And when the fire dies down after hours, I want to lie on my back and be able to see a meteor shower.”

Harry smiles, imagining it along him.

“What would you do in the meantime? You need to wait till two or three in the morning to see the biggest shooting stars.”

“I’d pick you up when you least expected it and I’d throw you into the ocean, that should be entertaining enough.”

Harry grins. Laughs, elbowing Draco, who looks at him with an expression so open Harry’s heart warms.

“I also want to go to Paris,” says Draco after a moment. “I used to go with my parents all the time, but it was always for important matters. Sure, we climbed up the Eiffel tower’s steps once, but I never got to just roam the streets of the city. We were always rushing somewhere. I remember seeing this one ice cream parlour that I always asked to stop by, and was never allowed to go into. I want to go there and order a mint ice cream.”

“ _Mint_?” Harry grimaces. “Yuck. I trusted you to have better taste than that.”

“I wouldn’t be here if my tastes weren’t questionable at best,” Draco retorts. “Besides, I doubt your resolutions are any better.”

“Well, I plan on running out of the ocean and bringing you back in with me, for one. And my second resolution is to hear you order an ice cream in French.”

“My French is decent enough, thank you very much!”

“I also want to go to Prague with you,” Harry says. “I was rambling the other day, but I can’t get the thought off my head.”

“I want to order a pizza and have a home they can bring it to.”

“Ooh, that’s a good one.” Harry searches through his mind for a second. “I want to learn how to do one of those intricate French plaits.”

“I know how to do them,” Draco replies. “I saw Mother braiding her hair like that when I was a kid and asked her to teach me.”

“Really?” Harry straightens excitedly. “Will you teach me?”

Draco laughs.

“Come here, you idiot. Turn around,” he says. “Take off your hat.”

Harry does as bid, pulling his bandana off too and pushing his hair back. Draco starts working his fingers through Harry’s strands.

“Okay, this is going to be slightly harder than I anticipated,” Draco mumbles when his fingers get stuck, his nails against Harry’s scalp sending a tingle down Harry’s spine.

“Believe me, it looks worse when I try to brush it.”

“Oh, I believe you alright.” Draco soon gives up, and instead starts gently pulling at the hair on the crown of Harry’s head—separating it in three small strands, he explains quietly, then crossing them before pinching the strand immediately below and crossing again. Pinching, crossing, pinching and crossing, he works his hands down Harry’s hair, then braids it normally once he reaches Harry’s nape.

Stealthily, Harry reaches into his pocket and clasps his wand. He flicks it, thinking the incantation, then takes out the hairband and hands it to Draco.

“This is a mess,” Draco groans. “I should start over.”

“I’m sure it’s alright.”

With a defeated huff, Draco grabs the band and ties the bottom of the braid with it. Starts pulling at the sides of it in an attempt Harry knows is probably futile.

“If they ask, we’ll tell them you tried to do it on yourself,” Draco declares.

Harry turns around, laughing—feeling his hair tentatively, fixing a strand that is pulling a bit too much at the back of his head as he says, “Oh, don’t worry, they’ll assume it was me. I don’t know if I told you, but I tried to cut my own hair once.” He lets his arms fall. They’re standing in front of each other now, no handrail to hold on to, and Harry wonders, in the back of his mind, what would happen if he kissed Draco right now. If he just leaned forward and kissed Draco’s lips. God, just thinking about it makes him giddy.

“You did?” Draco sniggers, and when Harry smiles back at him Draco’s gaze seems to slip, seems to linger on his lips for a moment before he looks back up.

“To be fair, it was only my fringe when I had it,” he says, a bit breathless. “But I ended up cutting one end a bit shorter than the other, and it took me several tries to make it look even…let’s just say I don’t look half as handsome with only half a scar on my face. But Molly assured me she loved it, probably to make me feel better about it. And I remember Ginny always petting it because she said the way it curled was adorable, which I must admit, it was—”

Draco kisses him.

The clock in the room inside just starts chiming midnight—a strike, then another—and Draco leans forward and kisses him, a chaste press of lips that ends far too quickly for Harry to comprehend the fact that Draco has just _kissed him_.

“Sorry,” Draco murmurs after a moment, “keep going.”

Harry, dumbfounded as he is, can barely shake his head. Can barely stutter a, “No, I—”

Gaze coming into sharp focus, he takes a step forward. Reaches for Draco’s hand, then raises it to cup Draco’s cheek. Looks into his eyes. Looks down at his lips.

The clock is still striking midnight when Draco leans forward and kisses Harry again. This time Harry follows him, parting his lips to catch Draco’s properly. Draco hugs his waist, holding Harry closer, and the hesitancy of it all, the tenderness and slowness and the warmth of Draco pressed so close against him, feels so safe and vulnerable that Harry can’t help but smile into the kiss.

Draco moans ever so slightly when Harry slides a hand into his hair, his lips finally falling open for Harry to properly devour. After a moment, though, Draco’s lower lip slips from between his teeth and Draco pulls back, breathing raggedly, and presses their foreheads together, hands playing with the fabric of Harry’s coat.

“Slow down,” Draco exhales, his words a breathless laugh. His smile so wide it takes everything in Harry not to kiss him again. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Okay,” Harry breathes.

“I don’t want to rush this,” Draco adds, bringing a hand to Harry’s braid to play with it.

“Okay,” Harry repeats.

“Okay?”

Harry nods.

“As long as I get to hold you”—Harry brings a thumb to Draco’s cheekbone, brushes it fondly—“And to be around you, I don’t think I mind anything else.”

Draco nuzzles the tip of his nose, gives Harry another peck on the lips. Says, “You’re so sappy.”

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry replies without thinking.

It’s the last thing he’s able to say before the door bursts open and Ron and Hermione, followed by a sea of Weasleys, demand to be kissed in the name of the new year.

At the other side of the forest, fireworks burst into existence—brought about by Ginny and George, Harry soon guesses, since the designs veer wildly from swear words to outrageous new year wishes. Molly groans, Percy guffaws—Draco stays close, a hand resting on Harry’s lower back as they drown in Weasley kisses.

Harry is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone didn't know, Victoire is Bill and Fleur's daughter!


	6. As the Walls Come Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had doubts with the rating of the fic, but decided it leaned more towards Mature.
> 
> Heads up that only one of them comes in the sex scene, but they're both okay with that.

**Epilogue**

They spend all of St. Valentine’s day playing a Seeker’s game.

Harry had planned for them to go to a coffee shop, maybe go back to his shop to dance around for a bit to songs that’d make Draco complain about his cheesy taste. Instead, as soon as Harry catches the Snitch Draco demands a rematch, and it’s not until it’s twenty minutes before 7pm that they give up on their fourth round, the Snitch lost somewhere in the forest.

“I’m going to murder Byrne in his sleep,” Draco grumbles when they land as he pushes his damp hair out of his face.

“Just a few more weeks,” Harry says, although he feels pretty much the same. It’s a pain in the arse having to part ways with Draco every single time they go on dates. Especially so when Draco has to pull back in the middle of a kiss. “Then we won’t have to say goodbye every bloody night.”

“Technically you could stay over.” Draco rolls up his soaked trousers. “I asked.”

“What?” Harry says. And again, staggered by Draco’s offhandedness, “What?”

“As long as we’re there by seven and don’t get out till eight in the morning, they don’t care. That’s what I was told.”

“But—wait. Do you want me to?”

Draco huffs.

“Of course I do, I’m just mad that you caught the Snitch twice and I only caught it one time. And also a little bit pissed off that I brought this up like this. It was supposed to be _romantic_.”

Harry walks up to him. Puts a hand on his arm so that he stops trying to rub the mud off his knees and fix his hair and fumble with his pockets. When Draco looks up at him, he says, “Let’s go, then. I’ll owl Hermione when we’re there to tell her I won’t be coming back tonight.”

He can barely believe they’re really going to do it, even as he Side-Alongs Draco to Diagon and they make their way to the Leaky. He’s still in a haze as he scribbles a quick note to Hermione and ties it to Tom’s owl and thanks Tom, who looks weirdly excited about the fact that Harry’s staying the night there.

As they walk up the stairs, Harry barely resists the urge to flip two fingers at Byrne, who is glaring at them like he’s about to start yelling—then forgets about it entirely when they reach the first floor and Draco guides him to his room.

The first thing Harry notices upon walking in is the stack of books Draco has borrowed from him piled on the bedside table. Then the double bed, neatly covered in blankets, and the purple stuffed dragon placed on the corner of the pillow.

“Awww,” he says, walking up to the bed to pick it up. “I didn’t know you slept with a stuffed toy. What’s its name?”

“Tintin, if you must know,” Draco grumbles, snatching the dragon from Harry’s hands.

He’s still on the defensive, then.

“Hey,” Harry says, brushing a strand of hair from Draco’s temple. “Wanna talk?”

Draco’s shoulders sag.

“It’s okay. Sorry. I just—I feel like I’m doing everything wrong. It’s one of those days.”

“You’re not.” Harry lets his hand fall—touches his knuckles to Draco’s waist. “But I get it. Those days suck.”

Draco rests his forehead on Harry’s. Sighs.

“This is what we’re going to do,” Draco says after a moment. “I’m going to take a long, warm shower, and then you’ll do the same, because we’re both drenched in mud and sweat and I don’t want us anywhere near my bed like this. Then I’ll start over and not fuck up.”

Harry chuckles—brushes their lips together before letting go of Draco.

“Sounds good to me.”

***

The shower that Draco takes is, indeed, long. Harry entertains himself leafing through his own books to find the little notes he’s written in the margins of his favourite scenes, then checking the books more carefully once he realises Draco’s been doing the same, his messy handwriting just a bit smaller and pointier than Harry’s.

When Draco steps out of the bathroom, enveloped in a giant bathrobe and a cloud of steam, Harry puts _Pride and Prejudice_ back down and turns to him, waiting for him to walk to the edge of the bed and sit down before asking, “Feeling better?”

It’s silly, but he still surprises himself with how soft his voice comes out whenever he talks to Draco.

“Stop being cute and go clean yourself,” Draco says, a smile playing on his lips.

“Okay, okay,” Harry laughs, retreating toward the bathroom, “But I know that’s a yes!”

Draco sticks his tongue out at him.

“Idiot,” he quips. Then, “There’s a towel for you on the sink!”

Harry takes his time rinsing the dirt from his face; looking through Draco’s Muggle shampoos, conditioning masks and body lotions. There’s coconut, citrus, lavender…Harry chooses the last one for his body, promptly deciding he feels like smelling of flowers. He makes puppy eyes at the shampoo that smells of roses, but instead uses the only bottle of shampoo that is specific for people with dandruff even though it smells of nothing but, well…shampoo.

When he steps out of the shower, he realises the towel Draco left him is much smaller than the bathrobe he was wearing, so he just dries his hair with a spell and uses the towel to dry his body instead. Then, tucking it around his waist in favour of putting back on his muddied clothes, he steps out of the bathroom.

He finds Draco sat at the edge of the bed. Harry comes to a halt, tucking the towel properly around his hips as Draco stands up and makes his way to him, a blur that quickly sharpens into focus when he steps into Harry’s personal space.

They stand there for a few seconds, Draco scanning Harry’s face, Harry letting him. He looks nervous, Harry realises—a vulnerable kind of expectancy painting his features as if there’s something he wants to say. Something he can’t quite phrase. He’s still in his bathrobe, although it’s tied more loosely around his waist now.

After a moment, Draco’s eyes leave Harry’s and trail down his chest.

“You have a scar,” he murmurs, touching two cold fingertips to the space between Harry’s collarbones.

“Yes,” Harry says. “It was Voldemort.”

It’s only after he’s said it that he realises he has never told anyone before.

Draco trails his fingers down the middle of Harry’s chest—plays with the line of hair under his navel.

“You don’t have any scars,” Harry points out after a moment, the gap of Draco’s bathrobe wide enough for him to see.

“Madam Pomfrey mostly healed them in time.” Those fingertips trace the line of Harry’s waist just above the towel with a feather-like touch. “You can still see them in the light, though.”

Harry lets out a sigh when Draco roves his hands back up, palms soft and warm against Harry’s waist, his ribcage—his shoulder blades. Then he groans when, with two fingers, Draco traces the valley of Harry’s spine and rests his hands over the towel. Just above Harry’s buttocks.

Harry leans closer, holding on to Draco’s hips, and Draco traces the edge of the towel again. The air is humid, and hot, and so is Draco’s breath near his temple.

Even though he’s not looking, Harry feels the moment Draco’s finger hooks under the towel, then lingers. He holds his breath. Finds Draco’s eyes, watches them shine with lust as Draco slowly, hesitantly untucks the towel from around Harry’s hips and lets it slip to the floor.

He’s holding on to Draco’s waist, but as Draco’s eyes devour him— _all_ of him—he trails his hands up Draco’s chest and pushes aside the openings of the bathrobe. Without a word, Draco lets Harry push the robe off his shoulders—lets Harry glance down at them, too, palms pressed against Draco’s warm sides.

When Harry looks back up, a question at the tip of his tongue, Draco closes the distance between them—presses his body flush against Harry's—and touches his lips to Harry’s jaw. Trails them down, slowly. Exhales against his throat.

Harry breathes raggedly. The room is warm, but he’s trembling, and he strengthens his hold on Draco’s waist to have something to hold on to as he feels— _hears_ , the smallest of sounds—Draco’s lips part against the curve of his neck.

As he feels a hand cupping the back of his neck, hot and firm and perfect.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, Draco’s mouth wet and hot on his skin, Harry’s breath caught in his throat—Draco’s hips waving slowly, almost imperceptibly, under Harry’s needy touch. All he knows is when Draco raises his head again he’s desperate, delirious, sensitive in every corner of his body that’s touching Draco’s. Half-hard.

“Draco,” is all he can manage, a broken murmur, as their eyes meet. Draco shuts him up with an open-mouthed kiss, fingers playing with Harry’s hair as the ball of his palm holds Harry’s nape.

“Bed,” Draco breathes against his lips, and then he catches them in another kiss as Harry walks him backwards.

Draco falls on his bum on the mattress, knees buckling, then pulls Harry into his lap as he crawls backwards, hand chasing Harry’s head again, lips parted when they catch Harry’s in another quivering kiss.

They haven’t gone past kissing each other senseless in the corner of Harry’s shop, and Harry’s heart skips a beat when he realises where Draco’s taking them. When he realises he’d let Draco have him any way he wanted to.

It’s been so long since he’s been in love.

Draco lies on his back, and Harry follows, kissing his jaw—his throat, the tip of his ear. Draco, panting through slightly parted lips, touches Harry hungrily, warm fingertips tracing the sides of his stomach, his waist; the dip of his spine at his lower back. He touches Harry with his legs, a foot brushing his, a thigh pressing against his bum—with his lips, kissing Harry’s cheeks, his nose, his chin; sighing against Harry’s temple when Harry brushes a thumb to his nipple.

Draco touches him, most of all, with his gaze.

It’s like he wants to see everything, to _memorise_ everything: the movement of Harry’s biceps as he caresses his way up Draco’s arm, the rise and fall of Harry’s chest as he breathes. The flutter of Harry’s eyelids as Draco catches Harry’s hand and brings it to his lips, as he sucks the tip of a finger into his mouth and ghosts his tongue over it.

Harry is so overwhelmed by it all—by how slow it is, and how gentle it is, and how new and hot and yet comfortable and familiar it all feels—that it takes him a moment too long to realise that Draco is rutting against him. Rutting slowly, almost absentmindedly—but rutting all the same, the hair of his pubes tickling Harry’s stomach. His hard cock pressing against Harry’s hipbone.

Harry exhales a shaky breath, and he feels it blend with Draco’s own right before Draco brings their lips together again.

It’s not so much a kiss as a play of lips, Draco nipping at Harry’s upper lip and then Harry sucking at Draco’s lower one and sighing unevenly as Draco’s fingertips tickle his lower back, the top of his crease, his buttock. They’re touching in so many places that Harry’s sure Draco can tell he’s hard too, but he’s too enraptured in the moment to do anything other than quiver with every brush of skin on skin—anything other than keep kissing and biting and licking Draco’s lips as he caresses and pulls at his silken hair, resting his weight on his forearms.

And then Draco’s hand moves from the curve under his arse to his hip, to his groin. Harry pushes his knees up to leave space for Draco to sneak his hand between them—moans into the kiss when a few knuckles brush his shaft, a tentative touch, then disappear again.

“Did you,” he whispers, letting go of Draco’s lower lip as he remembers Draco’s expression when Harry walked out of the shower, “Did you want to tell me something?”

Draco presses two fingers to Harry’s lips, shushing him. As he trails them down, Harry’s lower lip rolling down and then jumping back up, he looks Harry in the eye. His hand disappears between them again.

“Just touch me,” he exhales.

 _Okay_ , Harry mouths, soundless, just as Draco chases his mouth for another kiss.

He touches Draco everywhere, kisses him everywhere. His hair cascades all over Draco’s chest as he drags his lips down to Draco’s stomach—as he kisses down his hips, around his waist; as he catches the hand that is cupping his cheek and laps at his fingers. Draco pulls him up, kisses him, kisses his collarbones, then groans out a laugh when Harry’s hair gets in his mouth—a sound that melts into a sigh when Harry rolls his hips, when he takes Draco’s mouth again, when he touches Draco’s arms as Draco stretches them to grab his arse to keep Harry’s body slotted against his as they move—gasping, their movements turning hurried.

Reaching out blindly, Harry manages to get the covers open enough for them to crawl under. He barely manages to get his legs inside the bed before Draco pushes him on his back and crawls atop him. Kisses his neck, hungrily so.

When Harry presses his hands to Draco’s head, fisting them in his hair, Draco pulls back—looks him in the eye. Says, “What do you want?” And then, brushing Harry’s hair out of his face, “Tell me what you want.”

Harry moans incoherently when Draco undulates his hips against him once again. He uncurls his fists to cup Draco’s head properly, to stroke his temples with his thumbs.

“My-My waist,” he says weakly.

“What about it?”

Harry bites his lip.

“Can you kiss me there?”

With a chuckle, Draco disappears under the covers.

Harry waits. Draco wiggles down slowly, trailing his lips down Harry’s ribs along the way, then over his stomach. He’s holding on to Harry’s thighs for purchase, and probably feels them clench at the first brush of his lips against Harry’s waist—barely noticeable, and yet somehow overwhelmingly arousing.

Draco, apparently determined to make him lose every last thread of coherence, takes his time to explore every single centimetre of the curve of Harry’s waist, and doesn’t stop to lap properly at his skin until he finds the spot that makes Harry’s knees shake—that makes him moan, gasp, pull at Draco’s hair and press his waist to Draco’s mouth in desperate need for _more_.

When he pulls back from the kiss with a loud sucking sound, Draco doesn’t crawl back up. Instead, he kisses Harry’s stomach again, moving down to his hipbone and then his thigh, which makes Harry laugh because he’s ticklish.

Then, as he moves back up, Draco slowly, tentatively, laps his way up Harry’s shaft with a wet tongue, from the base to the leaking tip.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry groans, bucking his hips even as Draco resurfaces from under the covers. “You’re going to drive me insane, you beautiful bast—”

Draco cuts him off with an open-mouthed kiss.

When they pull apart to catch their breath, Draco rests his head on Harry’s chest, a leg draped over Harry as he lies on his side on the mattress. Harry kisses his head, pushing Draco’s hair from his forehead and playing with it, feeling Draco’s head rise and fall with his own ragged breaths.

“What do you want to do?” Harry asks, achingly hard and impatient.

“Doze off for a bit,” Draco mumbles. “‘M a bit tired.”

“Okay,” Harry says, voice soft. But a moment passes, and his cock just throbs, and it’s clear his erection isn’t going away anytime soon. “Would you mind if I touched myself, then?” he asks, voice croaky from arousal and just a tiny bit of embarrassment.

At that, Draco looks up at him.

“That depends,” he smirks, his fingers ghosting over Harry’s thigh under the covers. “Would you mind if I felt?”

 _Fuck_.

“Not at all.”

“Mm. Then go for it.”

Resting his head on Harry’s shoulder again, Draco finds Harry’s hand as Harry caresses his way up his own thigh, and holds it, tangling his fingers with Harry’s. He stays like that as Harry fondles his balls, as he presses his palm to his cock and rubs the ball of it up and down his shaft. Then, when Harry grips himself, Draco lets go, and instead trails his fingers up and down his forearm. Feeling the movement of his muscles as Harry pumps his fist.

The thought makes Harry groan, and he moves his fist faster.

Images of Draco flood his mind, mixed and unfinished and incoherent. Images of Draco sinking back down under the covers to take him in his mouth—of Draco pulling Harry into his lap like he did before, but this time placing his hands under Harry’s thighs to help Harry slowly, slowly sink down onto his slick cock. Images of Draco cuddling him from behind under the covers and fucking him slowly—teasingly, lovingly, until Harry is on edge. Until he’s coming untouched.

Focusing on that last thought, Harry comes, and Draco’s head lulls on the ball of Harry’s shoulder as Harry shudders through the spikes of pleasure. Draco’s fallen asleep, Harry realises, feeling Draco’s fingers slip from his forearm to rest on his stomach as he slowly touches himself through the last of his orgasm.

Harry can barely cast a cleaning charm, can barely pull Draco fully onto his chest so he doesn’t fall, before he’s dozing off, too—heart full and limbs heavy.

***

Harry half-surfaces from a dream when someone pushes at his chest with a grumble. It takes him a few seconds to realise he’s rolled onto Draco in his sleep and he’s snoring lightly as his open mouth presses to Draco’s forehead. He rolls to the other side, groaning, and the last thing he can feel before he sinks back into his dream is a body moving behind his. An arm chasing after him and being draped over his waist and pressed to his chest, a hand finding Harry’s and clinging to it.

***

It’s snowing outside when he wakes up in the morning, and he promptly remembers dreaming of flying over white mountains at some point in the night—dreaming of Draco holding on to him as they soar through the skies in his broom. The air cold, so cold. The flames so far away.

He turns to look at Draco—the real Draco, the one curled by his side, hand falling from Harry’s waist as Harry turns—and thinks he’s happy. That he could wake up like this everywhere, anywhere, and feel happy.

Then Draco stirs—frowns—and sneezes right in his face.

Groaning, then belly laughing, Harry rolls back onto his back.

“For the love of—” Draco sits up, as if he’s been awake for hours. “Sleeping _starkers_ , never in the history of—” He climbs off the bed, almost falling in the process. “If I freeze to death I will blame your perky arse!”

Harry slips his glasses on and smiles at him from the bed, lazily.

“You think my arse is perky?” he asks, watching Draco stumble around the bedroom.

“I’ve thought your arse is perky longer than Nicholas Flamel has—where the fuck did I put my pyjama bottoms?”

“They’re hanging from the bathroom door,” Harry tells him, smile widening.

Once Draco has properly covered himself, washed his face with warm water, and brushed his hair and teeth, he turns his attention back to Harry.

“Are you not going to get ready?” he asks from the bathroom door, eyebrow raised.

“For what?” Harry asks. “It’s a Sunday morning. You should come back to bed.” He makes a point of leaving room for Draco; of lowering the blankets for him a bit, uncovering himself until the duvet is sitting low on his lap.

Draco’s cheeks go pink, and he looks like he’s going to complain, but in the end he slips back under the covers with a pout.

“At least cover yourself up, you’re going to get a cold.”

“Mmm,” is Harry’s answer. “C’mere. You can be my clothes.”

Draco’s groan quickly turns into a cackle as Harry buries his face in his neck, embracing him, bringing him close. He has no clue why Draco would brush his teeth before breakfast, but his kiss tastes nice, so he doesn’t complain.

A while later, they’re lying on their backs, Draco mindlessly playing with Harry’s chest hair and Harry tracing circles on Draco’s hip, when Draco says, “I think I know what I want.”

Harry turns his head and finds Draco is already looking at him.

“I wanted to talk about it yesterday, but…yeah. One of those days.” He curls a strand of Harry’s hair around his finger. “I want to stay in London for a bit after my trial and find somewhere to live. Doesn’t have to be anywhere fancy, or permanent, just—a flat, maybe. In Muggle London. Just so we have a place for us while we’re here.” His own words make him smile. “Then I want to spend a few weeks with you in Paris. We can go for morning walks and have ice cream for lunch and you can laugh at me slaughtering French because I haven’t studied it properly in fifteen years.”

Harry kisses the tip of his nose, unable to resist the urge. He cups Draco’s warm waist under his hand, brushes a foot to Draco’s shin.

“Then, in summer, we’ll go to Spain—that’s where you said you’d seen a meteor shower before, right?”

“It is.”

“Good. Merlin knows we’ll be doomed if we try to see it in this pissing excuse of a country—whoever decided that England deserved to be cold and cloudy all the time? Oh, and in autumn we can go to Prague if you want to.”

“Why, thank you for thinking so much of me!” Harry jokes. “I’m glad my plans get at least one season!”

“Please, as if you don’t love the idea of making my dreams come true.”

“I do,” Harry says slyly. “That’s why I’m dating you.”

Draco snorts—pushes Harry’s face away when Harry tries to steal a kiss, rolling on top of Harry as he groans, “You’re a _child_.”

Harry leans up and steals that kiss anyway.

“And you are the most annoyingly charming prat I have ever chosen to spend my life with.”

Draco’s eyes find his again.

“So you’re choosing me.”

Harry presses a thumb to the sharp tip of Draco’s nose.

“Yup.”

“At least for now, that is.”

“At the very least, yes.” Harry smiles, and then he presses a hand to Draco’s nape to properly kiss him, murmuring against his lips, “At the very, very least.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even if this is an old fic, kudos, comments and bookmarks are still incredibly appreciated! ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> The Minor Character Death mentioned in this fic is that of Augusta Longbottom, Neville's Nan.


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